Читать книгу In Bloom - C.J. Skuse, C. J. Skuse, C.J. Skuse - Страница 18

Monday, 16th July – 10 weeks, 1 day

1. TV programmes about billionaires who spend millions on lampshades and ornaments and STILL find stuff to bitch about.

2. TV programmes about benefit cheats who buy fags, tattoos and Heineken but have ‘nothing to feed their kids’. Cry me a river.

3. People who say ‘might of’ and ‘could of’ not ‘might have’ and ‘could have’.

Plymouth Star guy was on the doorstep when I went out the front to shoo seagulls off the bird table. Him and a curly-haired camera guy.

‘Hey, Rhiannon. How you doing?’

‘Good thanks.’

‘Any chance of a couple of words for the Star?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got two words that would be perfect for you.’

‘Come on, throw me a bone, I’ve been in the job ten weeks and the most interesting thing has been Kids Set Fire to Furby in Precinct.’

‘I know what it’s like. I used to work for a local newspaper. Not the heady heights of crack reporting mind you – just editorial assistant.’

‘So you know what it’s like?’ he said. ‘Please. I need a scoop or they’re going to fire my ass. This is a huge story and you’re right at the centre.’

‘Too true,’ I sighed, folding my arms.

‘Please? Anything I can take back to the office? You’ll be getting your own side across. Some of the tabloids are saying you knew all along what Wilkins was doing.’

‘I did not know anything,’ I said. I noticed then he had Voice Memos recording on his phone. The camera guy was clicking. I calmed myself with a breath. ‘Tell me why I should bare my soul to you. Give me one good reason.’

He backed away. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s my job,’ he said. ‘This is what I do. There isn’t a good reason.’

‘Come on, give me a sob story. Why should I put you through to the second round? Dad dying of cancer? Brother out in Afghanistan? Granny just too damn nuts in the nursing home to recognise your face anymore? Tell me why I should give you my story and not the Mirror or the Express. They’ve offered me shitloads more than Pleases.’

He backed away, frowning. ‘I don’t have anything to give you. I just need a break.’ I stared him out until both he and the camera guy had disappeared through the front gate and out of my sight.

*

I have made a boo-boo – I shouted at Elaine. In fact it was worse than shouted. I jumped on the highest of horses, whipped its ass and rode it right through her. I caught her dusting around my Sylvanians country hotel in the corner of the lounge and rearranging things in the rooms.

‘DON’T FUCKING TOUCH THAT! WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THAT?’

I didn’t mean to say it, it just splurged out. And I know they’ve been good to me and looked after me and blah de blah blah, but JEEEEEEZUS why can’t people leave my things alone?! I’m not asking too much, am I? She’d moved the front desk into the sitting room. She’d made up the bed in the cat family’s bedroom when the maid was CLEARLY on her way there to do that herself. And she’d taken out everything in the fridge and put it on the kitchen floor.

Nerve = touched.

‘Rhiannon, I was only having a look, love …’

I could see my mother’s face in hers – What’s the big deal? It’s only a few toys, Rhiannon. You’re too old for toys now.

‘You weren’t “having a look”, you were touching things! Why can’t you leave them?’ My fingers were lengthening; my breathing grew sharper the longer I looked at her blank face. The room seemed to pale away and into sharp focus came the phone cord and Elaine’s saggy neck. Wrapping it around again and again, pulling on it, squeezing it, that face going purple.

‘I’m sorry,’ Elaine blushed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She sprinted from the room.

I took the hotel upstairs and shoved it in my closet, safe and sound. I knew it was too exposed downstairs but I had no room to display it up here. I had more Sylvanian stuff than I had clothes.

When I resurfaced, the house was quiet and there was a note on the hallway table – Elaine was at the church hall with her Christian women’s group for the craft fair and Jim was on the beach with the dog. I walked down there to find him sitting on the large rocks watching Tink sniffing in the rock pools. He didn’t mention the Sylvanians debacle at first; he started off-topic.

‘Did you look into that Airy B thing for me?’

‘Airbnb?’ I said. ‘Yeah, all done.’

‘You’ve done it?’

‘Yeah, I’ll show you later. We’ve had a few enquiries already. I think it’s looking quite good for August.’

‘Oh that’s great, thank you.’

‘No problem at all. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it?’

He smiled, looking out to sea. ‘I don’t have a clue about this internet lark. That place needs to start paying its way to keep the bank happy.’

See this is a lie pie if ever he’s baked one. One of the discoveries I’ve made about Jim since living with him is that he’s LOADED. He has quite the property portfolio. It’s another hobby – buying up shitholes and turning them into sought-after real estate. I’ve seen his bank statements. He’s got three projects on the go – a flat in Cresswell Terrace where a junkie melted into the floor, a five bed house on Temperley called Knight’s Rest where a hoarder stashed several hundred ice cream tubs of his own shit, and a holiday cottage called the Well House on the Cliff Road which has just finished being refurbed. For years it was used as a derelict meeting place for local teens to shag and break bottles. Jim asked me to put it ‘on the line’ now that it’s ready for holiday bookings.

That’s Jim’s problem, he trusts me. And I, being the gal that I am, am letting him down. I’ve put the listing up but once I’ve shown him, I will take it down again. I’ve decided I need the Well House – it’ll be my refuge. A place I can go anytime I want to eat and escape Elaine’s factoids about hot baths causing abortions and the link between obese mothers and autism.

‘Elaine mentioned you’d had a set-to about your doll’s house.’

I sat down on the lower rock next to Jim. ‘My deluxe country hotel, yes.’

‘Bit OTT wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘She was only cleaning it, Rhiannon.’

‘I DON’T WANT IT CLEANED.’

‘All right, all right. Cor dear, those hormones are playing up today, aren’t they?’ He laughed. He actually laughed.

I glared at him. ‘You don’t get it.’

‘Get what?’

‘After Priory Gardens, I went into a children’s rehab facility in Gloucester. It was horrible. It stank of cauliflower and farts. I was lonely. One morning, my dad and my sister went on breakfast TV to talk about it and how I was doing. Seren mentioned I liked Sylvanian Families. And I got sent so many. All the shops, all the animals. Seren would bring them in for me to play with. The toys the centre provided were either chewed or dirty but these were new and mine. I learned to talk again using my Sylvanians. I learned to hold things again, grip things. They helped me more than anyone will ever know—’

‘You don’t have to say anything else—’

‘—nobody else was allowed to touch them except Seren and she knew she could only play with them when I was playing as well. I used to rub the rabbits’ ears on my top lip and suck the clothes. No idea why, just liked it. Mum was always complaining about it – she said it made them stink. She said it was childish. I was still playing with them when I was twelve. Then one day, I came home from school and they’d all disappeared.’

‘Disappeared where?’

‘Mum had got rid of them. My post office, my supermarket, my country hotel. All the animals, all the little bits had vanished. She’d sent the lot to a charity shop. I screamed. Threw things at her. Bottles. Remote controls. Shoes. But she shut the door on me, refused to talk about it.’

Jim blew out a breath as Tink scurried over to him and begged for a pick up. Dogs always know. ‘That’s sad, Rhiannon.’

‘Seren had managed to save some of them of them for me before they went – Richard E. Grunt, a few rabbits, couple of the little books and the bathroom set. We sneaked out and buried them in the garden one night when Mum was asleep. The Man in the Moon was our only witness.’

‘Rhiannon, you don’t have to explain—’

‘That’s when I started saving up. Every bit of spare money I got, I’d spend on buying every last Sylvanian back. Piece by piece. I saved up all my pocket money, got a newspaper round, washed cars, mowed lawns. That’s the only thing I like about being a grown up. I can fight the battles I lost as a kid.’

‘I do understand,’ he said, stroking Tink’s silky apple head. ‘Our Craig used to say about your brain injury and how you liked things just so. I’ll have a word with Elaine, don’t worry.’

‘I miss Seren,’ I said, only then realising I had said it out loud. Jim seemed to be waiting for me to say more but I didn’t.

‘Of course you do. She’s your big sister.’

‘She’s half who I am,’ I said. ‘She taught me lots of stuff. Good stuff. French plaits and tying shoelaces and how to wrap presents so the corners were all tucked in. She’s practical like that. She’s a good mum.’

‘I expect she looked after you too when you were younger?’

‘Sometimes,’ I said, the night of Pete McMahon’s death flashing into my mind. His body on top of hers. Her drunken mumblings. The knife cutting through his ribs like a spoon through jelly. ‘Sometimes I looked after her.’

A silence fell between us. Without a word, we both got up and continued our walk. Tink trotted along between us. I placed my feet in footprints other people had left behind. It’s funny how you can’t walk in someone else’s footsteps, isn’t it? It doesn’t work. You end up taking too-long strides or placing your feet unnaturally to where you’d choose to put them.

We’d gone about ten minutes before Jim stopped and pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. ‘This came today.’

I knew what it was from the postmark – a letter from Craig. I’d been expecting it after Elaine intercepted the last one and set fire to it on the hob.

Jim rubbed his mouth. ‘Can’t ignore him forever. This is the fourth one.’

I scanned it through. His writing had got better. I’d only ever seen his scrawls on builder’s invoices or scrappily-written shopping lists. Clearly he’d taken some sort of calligraphy class while he’d been on remand. ‘I can’t see the point of visiting. It would only be more lies.’

He shook his head. ‘I know the evidence speaks for itself but it doesn’t answer everything. It doesn’t explain that on the night that woman’s body was dumped in the quarry, he was nowhere near. He’s on CCTV at Wembley, clear as day.’

‘What about the others?’ I said. ‘The man in the park? The semen all over that woman’s body? The… severed penis in his van?’

I refrained from saying ‘cock au van’. This wasn’t the time for that joke. It was never the time for that joke but it was still a good joke.

‘He’s still saying he’s being framed,’ said Jim. ‘That Lana sort he was seeing. He’s still my son, Rhiannon. I can’t give up on him.’

‘He’s Elaine’s son too. She’s given up on him.’

‘She’ll come round. We’re not going to leave him in there to rot, not when there’s a chance someone else is to blame.’

Tink nuzzled into the crook of Jim’s arm. Jim turned to look at me, his eyes filling with water. ‘I was the first person in this world to hold him. Before the doctors. Before Elaine. I won’t leave him when he needs me the most.’

Jim had brought back boxes of our stuff from the flat; his clothes, vinyl, the dehumidifier, all his old football programmes. The remnants of sawdust on his jeans. I cried when I opened the boxes. I found a bottle of his aftershave – Valentino Intense. I’d stitched the guy up like a quilt and now I’m crying about it. Pregnancy screws you right up, I’m telling you.

‘I’ll go with you,’ I said. ‘To see him. I’ll go. Not yet, but I’ll go.’

Jim put his arm around me, eyes all glassy. We watched Tink run after a Jack Russell, chasing it round in circles like a furry whirlwind. And we laughed. It was funny. But both laughs were too forced.