Chapter 3.01
Roberta huffed out a breath and went back to frowning up at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed any in the last hour. Or the hour before that.
Normally, after a monster leaving do, everyone should be comatose till at least eleven. Not lying here, examining every lump and bump between the cornices, as the miserable day miserabled away . . .
Susan was curled up on her side, sleeping mask slightly squint, earplugs in.
A bang then a thump vibrated through the ceiling, because Jasmine and Naomi were half-delicate-young-ladies, half-elephant.
Even through earplugs it was loud enough to make Susan snork, twitch, then fumble her sleeping mask up. Blinking at the gloomy morning. She popped her earplugs out. Then a smile bloomed across her face as she rolled over to snuggle into Roberta. ‘Mmmmmmmmmmmm . . .’
‘What?’
‘Got you all to myself, now.’
Which was true. No more Police Scotland politics to play; no more murders, robberies, rapes, assaults, or burglaries to solve; no more drug rings to bust up . . .
Should’ve been dancing naked in the street, whooping for joy.
So why was it like lying at the bottom of an open grave?
Waiting for them to shovel the earth back in.
Roberta took a deep breath. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
Wasn’t it?
‘Course it is.’ Susan snuggled in deeper. ‘And we don’t have to figure everything out in one go. We’ve got alllllll the time in the world.’
The rest of Roberta’s life . . .
‘Retirement. God, I’m so jealous!’ Susan gave her a big hug and a grin. ‘Got something for you.’ Then sat up and rummaged in her bedside cabinet.
Ahoy-hoy.
Roberta raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s no’ handcuffs, is it? Silk rope and some lubricant? Jar of—’
‘Surprise!’
It wasn’t any of those things. Instead, a shower of leaflets fluttered down on Roberta. No two alike. Ranging from colourful and professional to crooked black-and-white photocopies.
Eh?
She picked one up and held it at arm’s length, squinting. ‘Stained-glass making?’
‘Or this one:’ rifling through the drift for a photocopied flier with a naked-lady sketch on it. ‘Life-drawing classes. Painting people in the nude. You’d like that.’
Roberta sat up. ‘What the buggering snudge is—’
‘Evening classes, part-time community college courses. Or you could enrol at Aberdeen University, or Robert Gordon’s – do a degree!
History, English literature, poetry, pottery.
Maybe try a creative writing class and work on your memoirs?
“Batons, Butties, and Burglaries” brackets “my exciting life as a police officer in Aberdeen”! ’
‘But—’
‘Mortimer said you should train as a magistrate, can you imagine? The man’s senior partner at a law firm and doesn’t know we don’t have magistrates in Scotland?
’ Frown. ‘Starting to think he’s three or four marbles short of a Kerplunk.
But you could be a Justice of the Peace?
And I bet you’ve got loads of transferrable skills Citizens Advice would love.
’ Susan gave her a wide-eyed look. ‘You could even start over and build a completely new career!’ Then a poke.
‘But only if it’s nine-to-five with weekends off. ’
Oh God . . .
Roberta sagged back into the pillows. ‘But—’
‘Like I say: you don’t have to decide right now.’ Susan snuggled in again. ‘Got your whole life ahead of you.’
Why did those words echo around the room, like a dark bell’s toll?
Outside, little and not-so-little feet thundered down the stairs.
Jasmine: ‘Mu-uuuum! Can’t be late today, got that author visit, remember?’
Naomi launched into song, bellowing it out like a war cry:
‘WITH CAT-LIKE TREAD,
UPON OUR PREY WE STEAL!’
‘Nooo . . .’ Susan covered her face with her hands. ‘Maybe we can sell them for medical experiments? Or pet food.’
‘IN SILENCE DREAD,
OUR CAUTIOUS WAY WE FEEL!’
Maybe Susan was right? – about the fresh start, not the medical experiments – after all, wasn’t as if anyone at Police Scotland gave a toss about Roberta’s retirement.
Thirty sodding years . . .
‘NO SOUND AT ALL,
WE NEVER SPEAK A WORD!’
Maybe she should broaden her horizons a bit?
And painting people in the nip might be fun.
Long as they weren’t horrible munters.
‘A FLY’S FOOT-FALL,
WOULD BE DISTIIIIIIIIIINCTLY HEARD!’
‘Mu-uuuum! We’re out of orange juice!’
Actually, Susan was probably right about the medical experiments too.
Somehow Naomi managed to get even louder:
‘TARANTARA, TARANTARAAAAAAAAAA!’
‘Oh, in the name of . . .’ Grumbling, Susan rolled out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. ‘Flipping kids . . .’
‘SO STEALTHILY THE PIRATE CREEPS,
WHILE ALL THE HOUSEHOLD SOUNDLY
SLEEPS!’
Yeah.
Life was full of possibilities now.
Why not grab it by the testicles and squeeze till they pop?
Roberta lumbered into the spare room, carrying that stupid cardboard archive box. Which wasn’t easy without her walking stick. But both hands were full, so lumbering was the only option.
The room was nice enough, if a bit . . . plain.
Unlike the mistress bedroom, it was at the front of the house, overlooking the street – where Susan was busy shepherding their unruly children into the Big Car. Jasmine: dressed for selling books, Naomi: dressed for pillaging galleons on the Spanish Main.
Roberta dumped the box on the carpet and watched as they all clambered into the car, seatbelts on. Some laughter, glimpsed through the Volvo’s windows.
Maybe being a stay-at-home mum wouldn’t be too bad?
Even if it gave her the total shudders.
The Big Car pulled away, and off went Susan and the kids.
So, Roberta returned to her box – still full of filched stationery, appropriated coffee pods, rude USB sticks, and the dildos that somehow never did make it back into evidence.
You know what? If Police Scotland didn’t give a toss about her, then why should she give a toss about it?
All those years, slogging her guts out, trying to keep the various arseholes and assorted tossers of Aberdeen from killing each other, for what? A cancelled pub-crawl?
Sod them.
She put her slippered foot against the box and shoved it under the spare bed. Stuck two fingers up at the thing, Police Scotland, and all who sailed in her. Then shoogled the valance about till her pilfered stuff was completely hidden within the dusty depths. Where it could sodding well stay.
After all: this was the first day of the rest of her life. And she was going to do something with it.
Yes, she’d probably wobble a bit, and feel kind of lost from time to time, but she’d muddle through.
Always had.
Always would.
One thing was certain, though – no matter how bad things got, no matter how bored she became – there was no way in Satan’s sharny bumhole that she’d ever join Tufty’s stupid role-playing game.