Chapter 2.07
The kitchen clock ticked over to quarter past eight as Susan did her best to wrangle Naomi and Jasmine through breakfast and out the door.
Naomi was in sports shorts and a rugby top, shovelling in Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs and slurping from a glass of milk.
Jasmine sported black jeans and a black polo-shirt, crunching away at the more sophisticated toast-and-marmalade-with-a-mug-of-tea combo.
While Susan fussed and fiddled, throwing sandwiches and bananas and little packs of nuts into lunchboxes.
Wearing a smart navy business suit that flattered her curves and hid the bulgy bits.
Leaving Roberta marooned at the breakfast bar, surrounded by turmoil, mayhem, and uproar – underdressed in her green lions-and-tigers jammies.
You’d think, what with it being the school holidays, Monday morning would be a bit more sedate and orderly, but no. Mayhem and anarchy reigned in the Steel-Wallace household.
Roberta screwed one eye shut to stop the text from doubling up and had another go at that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner.
‘PSYCHIC SUE SAYS “BODY-IN-BIN DEMANDS JUSTICE”’ above the photo of a middle-aged woman wearing too much eye make-up and feathers in her hair.
Subheading: ‘MESSAGES FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE SLAM “HOPELESS” POLICE’.
Which, to be fair, was going easy on Acting DCI Beardy Beattie. Useless bugger could only dream of being hopeless. He’d have to give up being useless, incompetent, bungling, incapable, and inept to achieve the giddy heights of hopelessness.
Susan clapped her hands, grimacing up at the clock. ‘Come on, come on, come on! Move it or lose it, mothersnudgers! Time is money.’
Jasmine crammed about a quarter slice of toast into her gob in one go. ‘Mmmmmgh nnngh, mmmnnnnnffgh snnnrrfff?’
No idea.
Roberta put the paper down. ‘I can take them.’
‘Both of them? In a two-seater sports car? Is Naomi going in the boot?’
‘Cool!’ Naomi gave them a chocolaty grin. ‘Like a mob stoolie, on their way to get whacked!’
‘Besides, you’re not even dressed. And I’m pretty sure the doctor said no driving for at least three months.’ Glancing at the calendar.
The HAIRY PUSSY OF THE MONTH had moved on to August, with its fuzzy black kitten and pink toy mouse. The first three days were already crossed off. The fifteenth: looming . . .
Susan tried clapping again. ‘Jasmine, Naomi: more hustle-bustle, less chatty-munch-crunch!’ Kissing Roberta on the top of the head. ‘Anyway, thought you were having a lie-in?’
‘I did. It’s quarter past eight; should’ve been at work over an hour ago.’
‘Come on, Mum.’ Jasmine pulled on her Waterstones lanyard and ID. ‘I’m going to be late!’
‘Then get your bum in the car!’
‘Urgh . . .’ Grabbing her little sister. ‘Move it, Squirt, we’re leaving.’
‘Gennnnnn-ghis! Come on, Mummy’s going.’
The cat flap flicked open and in charged Genghis Khat, claws making tap-dancing noises on the tiled floor. Barking and grinning away, like the idiot wee dog that he was.
And then it was all bags and elbows and last mouthfuls and a lead being clipped onto Genghis’s collar and they were off – sweeping from the kitchen, leaving Roberta behind.
Susan’s voice boomed down the hall. ‘Everyone in the car, now!’
Genghis barked and yipped.
Jasmine: ‘Shotgun!’
Naomi: ‘No fair! You always—’
Then the front door clunked shut and silence descended on the house once more.
Roberta sat at the breakfast bar, with her lukewarm coffee and half-eaten rowie. Blinking.
Jesus . . .
It was like starting the day in a war zone.
The kitchen was littered with dirty mugs, plates, and glasses; cutlery strewn everywhere, including enough buttery knives for a family of twelve, most of which made greasy splots on the worktops. They hadn’t even put the bread and milk and boxes of cereal away.
There were even clumps of butter in the marmalade.
She lived with absolute sodding minks.
And then, into the kitchen padded Mr Rumpole. The only other sensible person in this whole asylum.
He paused in the middle of the room to stretch out his arms and back, then did one leg at a time, before looking around at the debris left behind by his noisy people.
Roberta toasted him with her mug. ‘Well, Mr Rumpole, looks like it’s just you and me, the day.’
Mr Rumpole examined her for a moment, then sauntered out through the cat flap and away across the garden. Disappearing over the wall.
‘Thanks a flipping heap.’
Living Room (11:25)
Roberta lay on the comfiest of the two couches, knees up on the leather-buttoned arm, feet dangling, drifting through the channels on the TV. Spinning the never-ending carousel of cooking shows and daytime dramas and talking heads.
‘. . . the importance of setting boundaries at the very beginning of a new relationship is—’
Click:
‘. . . damn it, Lieutenant, I can’t be responsible for every mob—’
Click:
‘. . . always loved the taste, but if you don’t like coriander you can—’
Click:
‘. . . day of wildfires sweeping through Oxfordshire, leaving devastated communities in its—’
Click:
‘. . . because people don’t really appreciate the cultural significance of Bananarama. They—’
Click:
‘. . . bought the property at auction, but renovating it to sell has turned out to be an absolute—’
Click:
‘. . . no good, Marjorie! I love you, but I simply can’t allow you to put yourself in this intolerable—’
Click . . .
Kitchen (12:05)
Roberta stood at the open fridge, leaning on her stick, staring in at the vast array of thingummies, whatnots, and takeaway containers. None of which looked even vaguely appetising.
She grimaced.
Sighed.
Then closed the fridge again.
Top Floor Hallway (12:30)
She haunted the corridor like a lumbering, three-legged ghost, looking in on the two girls’ rooms. Both of which were a disastrous mess of clothes and toys and books and assorted crap.
And yes, she could tidy it up for them. But sod that.
She was their mum, not their maid.
Kitchen (12:50)
Roberta opened the fridge again.
For some weird reason, its contents hadn’t mysteriously rearranged themselves into something deliciously exciting and interesting.
Pfff . . .
Back Garden (12:55)
Standing on the patio, Roberta puffed out a steamy lungful of pineapple-raspberry vape – aiming for a smoke ring, getting a lopsided bagel instead.
Chilly out here, in jammies and slippers.
Puffing away with her nips like rivets, all because Susan banned smoking and vaping indoors.
Roberta had another go: sending two amoebas, a smudge, and a blob drifting away into the grey afternoon.
God, the days were just packed . . .
Mistress Bedroom (13:05)
She lay on the bed, with her bare feet on the floor, toes digging into the carpet as she sighed up at the ceiling for a change.
Throwing in a groan for good measure.
At least back in the hospital she had nurses, and support staff, and porters, and cleaners for company.
Kitchen (13:30)
Fridge time again. Same old show.
Utility Room (13:50)
Laundry overflowed the basket. It looked as if the girls had half their wardrobes strewn across their bedroom floors and the other half down here, waiting to be washed.
Yeah . . . Didn’t matter how bored Roberta was, she wasn’t bored enough to do it. Not yet, anyway.
Instead, she hefted her going-home holdall onto the worksurface and unzipped it – pulling out pair after pair of cheery jammies and cramming them into the already stuffed basket. Followed by a worm’s nest of socks and a pile of pants.
Next out of the bag was Boris Johnson. His eyes had gone a bit wonky from all the head-squeezing – as if he’d been on a legendary bender with Yeltsin and Berlusconi.
Then her washing kit.
And finally: that sci-fi novel the wee loon bought for her. The one that got hurled. The Eternal Wank Of Wankity Wank-Wank, by J.M. Wankster.
She opened it and flicked through a couple of pages.
Nope.
Dumped it on the worktop.
Stuck two fingers up to the thing.
Sagged.
There had to be something in the fridge.
Kitchen (14:10)
Roberta stood hunched over the breakfast bar as the microwave burrrrred away – nuking leftover beef chow mein, discovered at the back of the devious refrigerator, where it’d been hiding behind a cauliflower.
The Aberdeen Examiner lay open at the centre-page spread: ‘UKNH CANDIDATE “RACIST RAPIST” CLAIMS EX-COP’ stretched over a photo of some gammon-faced spud in a blue suit and red tie, posing with a sharp-featured woman. Both wearing red-white-and-blue election rosettes.
Graeme Anderson’s political party was barely seven weeks old, and already mired in scandals.
Ding!
Here we go.
She removed her lunch from the microwave. ‘Aaargh . . . Stingy, burny, hot-hot-hot . . .’ hurrying it to a waiting plate with scalded fingers. Then creaked the top off, letting loose a huge whoosh of steam and the scents of five-spice and garlic and ginger and—
Roberta held the cardboard container of spring rolls out to Tufty – sitting there, eager as a Labrador, with his chopsticks at the ready.
‘Thanks, that’s—’
Searing light slashed through the car, followed by an ear-ringing BOOOOM! as the windscreen shattered into a million little pieces.
—she trembled the lid back onto her takeaway container. Grabbed her stick. And lurched from the room. Free hand clamped over her mouth to stop breakfast escaping.
A flush thundered around the toilet bowl, sweeping away the chunks and lumps.
Urgh . . .
Roberta levered herself to her feet, leaning all her weight on the sink. Washing her hands and face, before rinsing her mouth out with toothpaste and water.
So now everything tasted of bitter-parmesan and mint.
No idea what brought that on.
Didn’t have any problem on Thursday night – ate enough for four people: noodles, spring rolls, prawn toast, the lot. Not a flashback in sight.
But now that old familiar jackhammer was clattering away inside her skull again.
Back in the kitchen, she broke into the tub of pills they’d sent her home with. Knocking back two co-codamol with some cold tea.