Slow Poison - Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Amsterdam. January 23rd

Kramer counted lab tile, uncomfortable in the sterile surroundings, wheezing in the antiseptic air-conditioned atmosphere, too cold for January. The forensic scientist working alone at his desk would have preferred solitude, but the asthmatic fat man had insisted upon remaining in the room. De Winter, the scientist, bearded, forty, had planned a different Saturday; a day of family delights yet, here he was, verdomme, a snatched breakfast repeating on him, tearful kids waving goodbye from the back of his ex-wife’s Espace.

“Have you found anything?”

The whisper swished around the tiled walls.

“Yes. A multitude of smudges. One of the more distinct prints has some rather interesting characteristics. Come and see for yourself.”

“So what am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Well, look at this print. I would guess the fingerprints have been treated in some way to avoid detection.”

“Plastic surgery, you mean? Something like that?

“No, he’s not in that league. No, they’ve been coated with some kind of polyurethane, nail varnish - something like that

“Ah, this will make more sense than ever now.”

Kramer slapped an envelope on the slab. Inside there were white flakes, like dead skin.

“I found this caught between the handle and the blade of the knife.”

“What is this stuff?”

“Model aeroplane cement. I thought the lads must be glue sniffers. Can you test these samples again?”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. There were faint traces of Cyanide in the deceased’s blood and on the blade of the knife.”

“Jesus!”

Kramer felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. The ulcer. He added a Rennie to his Fisherman’s Friend, and hoped that he would make it back to the station.

Stonehouse. Two o’clock.

“Girls! Girls! Come on in now! Mrs. Lewis is ready.”

Miss Butt shouted at the distant figures playing in the snow in her best schoolmistress voce, but none of them heard her call. The playground was an eerie place on a dark Saturday afternoon; the slide and the roundabout, the rocking horse and the squeaking swings were coated in frozen strata of ice and snow. After the final fitting of the glow-worm costumes, the girls had flown the Centre to spin under the whirling snowflakes that billowed down. Sarah and Cathy were the first to begin the rolling, their hard icy globe pushed back-breakingly around the Centre car park. Soon, the snow was all used up and with the others following in a gaggle, the girls had rolled the small ball into the playground area, their tracks cross-hatched over the entire playing field, the ball now a massive rolling block of snow. Sarah and Cathy pushed on, obsessed, unaware of anything but their task.

“It’s no good, Miss Butt, we’ll have to send someone over to get them. they can’t hear you. Mister Brennan! Philip Brennan sat brushing his costume, the fake-fur crackling with static, eyes as big as tea trays staring blankly up at him.

“Mister Brennan - would you be an absolute angel and gather the girls up for us? We need them now, and they just can’t seem to hear.”

“CATHY! CATHY!”

“Oh, it’s our Dad.” Cathy sighed.

At the sight of Brennan approaching, the silent grey Mercedes hidden behind the hedge cover of Laburnum Walk fired its engine and glided slowly over the fresh fallen snow along the narrow road toward the Co-op and the High Street. No one noticed it pull away.

“We are little sparks in the dark.”

 The roughcast concrete walls of Midland Road had all but vanished into the thick camouflage of heavy snow. The grey Mercedes rolled slowly along, from seventeen to eighty-one. Behind the Oxendale curtains, television sets buzzed, straining to catch the signals that were almost all beyond range. Damp grey sheets hissed on the clothes-horse, butter burned blue in an enamel pan, budgerigars twittered incessantly and sharpened useless beaks on ancient cuttle fish bones.

Trim looked in his rear view mirror expecting a smear of blood trailing behind, staining the snow, all the way from eighty-one to seventeen. The windscreen wipers slapped the snow aside; a whiplash, the faint echo of a Staverton jet, the snap of Peacock’s elasticated underpants, the slow handclap around the fire. 

‘We are little sparks in the dark.’

Few would see the car. No one would alert the mother. Trim steered the car with difficulty toward Festival Road, taking the left fork up toward Severn Road, past the Methodist church and past the Library. The Library. They had learned more among the damp cement foundations and deep trenches than in all the years since the bright brick walls had risen and sheltered the rows of dog-eared books. ‘Wanna see summat good?’

He brought the car to a halt before the old school, the new school to his right. At a little before closing time, the world seemed deserted, devoid of humanity, he alone shielded from the neutron attack behind bullet proof glass. ‘And no one to share our joy.’ Inside the Mercedes he sat in silence, unable to find music to equal the sense of desolation. He searched the passenger seat for cigarettes. There were several brands scattered over the upholstery. He chose the Sobranie the one brand he ever bought. Emerald green tipped with gold, the bitter sweet chocolate taste that created visions of high leather riding boots, of Diaghilev, of brilliantine, of Garland, of dim lighted rectangles with muted orange Latin words, of railway carriage plush, of monochrome and Technicolor, of charlatans and fakes, Jerries and Frogs.

Still there was no music to lift the mood. His mouth felt dry and there was no satisfaction drawn from the aromatic tobacco. He felt a sudden flush spread over his skin, over his entire body, followed by a chilling sensation that left him shivering and shaken. The drug. Up until this point the bliss had not intruded into the exposed world, had remained a discreet and solitary pleasure, but now, skin ravaged by goose-bumps and cold sweat, the urge for healing overtook him with a power unknown to him. Control. When had control abandoned him? His eyes burned and the bright light of shimmering snow pained him. He closed his eyes against the wide flickering screen before him, turned away from the broken film. A plague of locusts grew black against the sky and swooped down, their wings fanning chainsaw noise into nail guns of sound that exploded around him like a visible migraine. The blood dam broke and threatened to wash the heavy car away like a Pooh stick. He could see the blood roaring toward him in the rear view mirror. A tidal wave of blood, roaring all the way from eighty-one to seventeen.

No one heard the screams that took him into the inner folds of black velvet depths. Twelve hundred years crushed into mere moments. He opened his eyes and the picture was gone, the snowy screen flickering before him, hissing softly beyond the safe layered glass. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles showed white, until the black kid gloves creaked against the fine waxed stitching. He slumped forward exhausted, his underwear and body hair wet against his outer clothes, his muscles groaning like a churchyard gate.

“Oh god! What the fuck is happening?”

The scar burned and seemed to tear apart in one small vivid slash of pain. Trim screamed once more, clutching his groin, his thigh, his calf, horrified, attempting to staunch the blood, hold the weeping flesh together. Nothing had happened. The skin was still one; long healed with suture tracks that ran from seventeen to eighty-one. Trim was near collapse again, panting heavily, steaming the windows of the Mercedes until they wept with condensation. He fumbled under the passenger seat for one of the plastic sachets. There was little time to lose. His trembling fingers found the plastic envelope. There would be no ritual. No fine parallel lines upon Italian marble. He tore the plastic with difficulty, pouring the white powder into his cupped palm. He breathed with difficulty, inhaling into each nostril, choking, finally licking the remaining drug from his damp palm. He was plucked from Hell and drawn high, smoothing the horizon until one single filament of gold edged the pages he turned in his reverie.

Seeing her here again - here - I can feel the fingers tugging and pulling me. I can touch you. Feel your lightness around my neck. I can feel your sweet breath brushing past me. Curtains fall and form blue shimmering resistance to my touch, blue light from here to you, from me. Blue. I stand but a small way off, shy behind a screen. You dance for me once more - and you dance, dance for me, you dance, my little one, Giselle.

The old man. Time to talk. To question. To explain. Time to say goodbye. Trim started the engine and turned the car slowly back toward the estate, a smile playing over his lips, his breathing steady, pulse quite normal, the sickness forgotten. The old man. Opa. Time.

The Kings Arms

“We should have left after breakfast.”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“All we can do is leave the old heap here and get back to the pub.”

“Are you sure we should.”

“We’ll have to. We could die out here.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Come on, it’s no more than a mile.”

Alan leaned over and gave Becky one more heartfelt kiss. Becky pulled away abruptly.

“What is it?”

“Look!”

“My god, miracles do happen!”

Trudging through the snow, heading toward them, came two men and a Labrador. Alan swung his legs out of the Rover door and waved to them. The dog bounded forward like a demented rabbit, hopping in jerky jumps, trying to avoid the snow.

“Hello, boy!”, said Alan, rubbing the dog’s head as it placed its forepaws on the running board.

“Thought we might find you out yer. Should’ve left when I said, eh?”

It was George the landlord and Harry Fry, the local bobby.

“Lucky old George spotted you. He saw the Rover from over thur. You be right lucky.”

“I guess we are. I though you said we’d make it.”

“I said if you went after breakfust, din I?”

“I’ve never seen snow like this, not since Sixty Three.”

“Farty-Seven was wuss.” said Harry.

“Better get these oilskins over you.” said George. ”Come back to the pub till you can get away.”

An hour later Becky and Alan were back at their corner table near the fire, their rooms reserved for one more night. Janet had been sympathetic on the phone, said that Sarah was fine, everything was fine, said to take care.

The Rover had disappeared from sight and blended with the walls and the hazel trees that landscaped the snow covered fields. Soon the telephone lines would freeze, and some would snap, and another Cotswold siege would begin.

“Sarah is going to be disappointed. she’s dancing in the pantomime tonight. Poor kid.”    

“Yes. Poor kid.”   

Becky turned from the fire to look at Alan.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

He blushed slightly.

“I’ve been here a few times before.”

Alan took her hand and suddenly he felt tears welling up, stinging his eyes. He turned away and looked out at the white wall that was the snow storm. He turned back and looked into her eyes. He smiled and gripped her hand tightly. 

“I love you” he wanted to say. He said; “Fred was a lucky man. He was truly a lucky man. I hope he knew.”

This time it was Becky who began to cry.

Stonehouse; The Council Flat

“Who’s there? Who is it? Oh - it’s you. You’ve come.”

The younger man had entered the council flat quietly with his pass key, entering the cold kitchenette through an open door, the old man seated at the table with his back to him. As the younger man stood in the doorway he felt as though the old man had been expecting him for years. The younger man moved around to face the old man. He sat down at the table opposite him.

“There’s tea in the pot. It’s just been made.”

The teapot was stone cold.

“Have you used up all the coffee I brought you?”

“Coffee?”

“Yes - coffee. From Amsterdam.”

“Coffee? From Amsterdam? You brought me coffee from Amsterdam? Black market?”

The younger man sighed. It was no good. The old fellow was senile.

“The tea is cold. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“You look as though you are near to death.”

“What?”

“You look as though you are dying.”

The younger man held the edge of the table, splashing cold tea upon his Gucci slip-ons. His stomach churned and the horror of the car came back to him, washing over him with the power of a tidal wave.

“I’m fine. It’s just the cold. You look fit, though.”

“I survive. I always do.”

“You haven’t touched the coffee.” the younger man called from the wall unit, a million miles away. God, how he needed coffee, cognac, the drug, Lenny. Anything.

“Coffee? Is there coffee?”

Icy water splashed into the furred kettle, its calcinated marbles roiling ineffectually around the flaky interior. There was no gas. The young man felt in his coat pockets for change. He found five pounds worth of fifty pence pieces. He inserted four in the meter and turned the cold metal dial. The dropping coins rang down in the hollow case. Déjà vu. Lenny. The damp matches would not light, the sulphurous heads left smears on the

Glasspaper, on his fingers. England’s Glory. A joke. Number 307. ‘What gets wet as it dries? A towel!’ Ho, bloody ho! A lighter set the gas ring hissing, set the old man shivering. The smell. Sulphur. Gas. The expensive cologne splashed over the close shaven cheeks. Lucifer. Lord of Hell Incarnate.

“There’s no milk. There’s no sugar either.”

“Black. I take it black. There’s no biscuits either.”

There was dull glee in his voice.

“Yes there is.”

The younger man produced a packet of Co-op chocolate digestives from his coat pocket with the panache of a magician.

“Did you steal them?”

“No.” the younger man replied, hurt. “I bought them for you.”

But he had stolen them. One for now, one for the pocket. So easy.

“I don’t want them.”

“They used to be your favourite ones.”

“I don’t want your damn biscuits.”

The younger man shrugged his shoulders, leaned silently against the kitchen cabinet. Dust caught his sleeve in a dark stripe. The kettle boiled at last and the younger man poured the water over the grounds in the rinsed out teapot. The aroma of coffee filled the small kitchenette with vivid memories.

The old man; the room was full of dark shining surfaces, mahogany, bronze, faceted mirrors, the upright Viennese piano, Giselle’s jet eyes. Sepia lace and cigar smoke whirling in the sallow candlelight as she danced. Coffee. The joyous, unsuspecting innocence of a room between the wars.

The young man; the breakfast room in the Peebles hotel, their bodies raw from sex, lips engorged, skin bathed in each others sweet sweat, honey in salted porridge, grease gelled like a royal seal at the edge of the cooling bacon, and his eyes across the steaming coffee, dancing glances around the emptying room, breakfast long over for the spinsters. They were late. No one noticed the fingertips touching. There was coffee. Thick and black and piping hot. And the joyous, yearning innocence of pure lust cut with the purest hate.

“Go on. Have a biscuit. I’m going to.”

But the power of the coffee was too strong and the men drifted into the silent world of their own thoughts. Long moments would pass before either of them spoke again.

Stonehouse, Little Australia

“I’ve already arranged for Mrs Trim to pick Sarah up. She’ll spend the night there.”

“Oh god, not Hilary’s. Not more of her holiday slides. I can’t stand another evening of Amaryllis flowers in Wollongong.”

“You always seem to enjoy her potato wine.”

“Can’t we go another night?”

“No. And anyway, we can see the panto tomorrow. There are two shows.”

Glyn stared tight-lipped out at the snow. He thought of Becky, trapped amidst the drifts. He knew that she would not miss being at the pantomime unless circumstances such as these prevented her. The thought of being snowed in at Hilary’s occurred to him and he saw eternity stretch out before him, the purgatory of a million amateur slides repeating and repeating until god pulled the plug.

“Are you watching this?”

“What?”

“The wrestling. There’s a film on the other side. Do you if I turn it over?”

“No. Go on.” Glyn sighed. The film had started. The drama of Rachmaninoff, the beat of a steam train and the frightened faces of Johnson and Howard. This was not one for Glyn. He rose as Janet sank into her armchair, tears already forming.

“Will you put the kettle on?” she called before he had the chance to slip away.

“Tea or coffee?”

“I don’t mind. Whatever you fancy.”

There was a jar of slug pellets next to the Nescafe jar in the cabinet. Sometimes Glyn joked about putting some of the pellets in her coffee. Sometimes he was serious. The tension of the film was dissipated as the inane homemade carpet and tyre advertisements took over. Bloody HTV. He heard the strains of a Heineken advertisement begin. He had been relieving himself of the stuff the night that Fred was killed. Pints of the muck they had sunk.

“Oh god - Fred.”

The Rachmaninoff underscored his sudden sadness and for the first time he allowed himself great choking sobs to pour out his grief. He kicked the kitchen door shut, but Janet had heard. She knew when to leave Glyn alone. She sat facing the screen, the black and white flickers playing out their unseen drama before her. The scream of the steam escaping from the whistle jolted her back into the room, into the film, into focus. The screen filled with garish colours as the carpets and tyres returned. Glyn pushed open the door with his foot, a steaming cup in each hand.

“Coffee for me, slug pellets for you.”

“Put the wrestling back on if you like.”

“No. It’s OK. Watch your film.”

A monochrome steam train roared past a frail, terrified face, furious arpeggios heightening the terror in the woman’s eyes. For an instant Glyn could catch the scent of the Bristol Express, could taste the bitter metallic bite of flaking lead paint, thought of switching the coffee cups, of attempting some other method. He laughed aloud.

“Glyn. How can you laugh? This is the saddest part. She never sees him again. Oh - I wish that other woman would stop talking.”

Janet stopped suddenly.

“Look!”

She rose from her armchair and went over to the window.

“What is it?” asked Glyn, joining her.

They watched as a postal delivery van slowed down and skidded slightly outside Becky’s house.

“Must be a special delivery.”

The postman went up to Becky’s front door and rang the bell. He waited for a moment before ringing again. He was holding a small padded envelope, which he pushed through the vertical slit of Becky’s letterbox.

“I wonder what that was?”

“None of our business.”

“It might be important. She might need to know about it.”

“Leave it, love.”

“I’m going over to have a look.”

“Janet - you can’t.”

But Janet was already pulling her coat on. Glyn watched her slither with difficulty over the slush. He watched her open the door with her spare key and enter the house. After a moment she reappeared at the door. There was something wrong. She leaned crookedly against the doorpost, looking dangerously close to a faint. Glyn looked briefly at the coffee cups. He had only been joking.

Without benefit of coat or proper shoes, Glyn shuffled across the road in his slippers.

“What on earth is the matter, love?”

“Oh Glyn. It’s terrible. Terrible. Come and look.”

The little padded envelope lay on the table by the phone. Glyn scooped it up and shook the contents into his hand.

“Oh my god!”

He stared ashen faced at the tiny diamond pendant that lay in the palm of his hand.

“Bloody hell. It’s hers, isn’t it?”

Janet did not need to answer.

They stood rooted to the spot staring at the sparkling stone. Janet could feel her own pendant against her skin, under her cardigan, beneath her blouse. The house was still. A chasm of silence in between phone calls. The phone. It sat on the small polished table inert and mute. Trim had other things to do.

“It’s not over is it?

“No. It’s not over.”

Clinging to the plastic bubbles that lined the bag, as yet unnoticed, lay a sheet of paper torn from a scribble pad. There was one word scrawled across the paper in a childish hand. One word. MUFFIN.

Stonehouse: The Flat

“Are you staying for the night?”

At four the day was already dark. The kitchenette dimly lit by a twenty-five watt bulb, its shade thick with dust.

“No. I won’t be stopping.”

“Your mother was asking if you’d been here. Will you visit her?”

“I might.”

“Is he still working nights?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go and see her. Go.”

The old man clutched the younger man’s sleeve earnestly. The younger man pulled his arm away in disgust. He stood up and turned to leave. The old man said nothing. The younger man hesitated in the doorway and then felt inside his coat.

“Here. You may as well have this. I won’t be coming back.”

The younger man tossed the leather bound diary on to the table. The old man started. The peculiar smell filled the small room and blotted out the present. The old man was alone. His heart pounded loudly within his fragile ribcage - as brittle as Ming. He ran a finger over the cover and sat staring at the small book, disbelieving. He knew the boy had taken it. He had taken so much. It was his way. He had taken one too many biscuits, had taken the silver bell from the dead cat’s collar, had taken the money from under the clock. What else had he taken?

The old man leafed through his book, hardly daring to read at all. To read was to re-live so much. There were forty years contained within the covers. More. Thumbing through the book with his arthritic fingers he caught sight of repeated words, his minuscule script faded and brown, the pages yellowed and crisp. Nearing the final pages, the script altered dramatically, changed character completely. The boy had written in the book. In his book. He had. In frail scratchy writing, the younger man had begun a continuation of the journal, in words still alien to the old man, deeds so foul that they matched the past. He could make them out, but they would remain forever alien to him. He began to read falteringly. He remembered the day so clearly. The day had begun with blood upon the doorstep as the sun had risen on a blue skied nightmare. This was how the boy had remembered it.

One thousand days later, swifter than an arrow, the Norton bore down on me, sweeping my senses away in a tide of spent exhaust and scorches. From eighty-one to seventeen. Summer skies and sound barriers had streaked our bodies with bronze, bare toes splashing on pavement and asphalt dream pools. The edges of the estate had bled outward like the blue-black Quink on a tear-stained letter, or a bad report. Like an upstart it elbowed the countryside aside, pushing back the fields and streams, fencing in the animals, frightening away the jays and swifts. Then, with defiance, the blue jean kids arrived. Windows on worlds had shown them pouting, answering back, angled leather shoulders weathering stone walls, Brando filling their Gloucestershire burr with slang and curses. The streets, still clutching to their rural ancestry belied the asphalt inheritance. They tricked us into sullen shyness, into passive silence.

The Elver man warned us with his bell, the cars that there were slowly rolled upon us, black and heavy, rending the air with sudden caterwauling. I heard the Norton roaring far beyond the creosote walls, cutting through the pain and the humiliation, echoing throatily through the estate, moments away, sounding near, approaching, roaring past, then once more into the distance. They laughed and cut me free. I had wet my self, piss and shit streaming down my thighs. I ran from their spermy hands and into the roar. I saw his eyes, filled with fear, then I saw nothing. From eighty-one to seventeen they told me later.

As I looked down at the pavement I saw them gathered. Mother. Ashen, her baked skin like parchment, histories etched fine. Fred and Lenny, the little kids, the Snake Island Girls, wisps of cheap perfume drifting past me, rosaries and rites, the Bedford Van and Fred and Lenny, reaching out to hold back time. So small. So scared. Thoughts racing in a maelstrom of anguish and withy days, grief and regret. Their game had set me running, thoughtless and summer naked into the path of the Norton, caught like a feather, blown from eighty-one to seventeen. Tears streaking dirt in  their lifelines. And I watched, gazing down at Mother’s bed. They would take me there - to the cool and tidy room, with its walnut Wardrobe and glass topped dressing table, with its lavender secrets of stockings and nylon underwear, with its linoleum indifference, its netted discretion, its dusty secrets.

Fred and Lenny stood whimpering, their darkest wish come true in the powerless seconds, the unalterable course of action upon action. Underwater sounds washed through the deathlike hush that filled the room. I watched in fascination, I strained to hear; other worldliness. Cage and dada and unheard long sought reminiscences drifting around me. I waited, hesitated, watching and listening. Familiar frightened words cut through the water like a shark, like a stickleback - words that stung, that shrieked, that hung somewhere under the low eaves of the creosote prison. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I dint mean it.

It was black. I fell and everything went black. It left me hanging so close to the edge, so easily pushed, so dangerously close. A puff could do it. A single ray of sunshine. A drop of rain. A taste or a sigh. I knew flight. Only their words pulled me back. Damn their souls.

The effort of reading in the diminishing light had exhausted the old man. He reached for the coffee, the touch was cold. So much had happened on that brilliant summer day, one more page of the perpetual nightmare. He wished he were a child again, playing for long afternoons on the burning pavement flags. Sticks in the gaps, fresh milk and allotment radishes and tomatoes for tea. He wished he were dead. The space between joy and peace had been too long, too troubled, had been filled with unbearable pain. The craving for the sweet taste of vengeance had long since disappeared. He wished he had died back there with the others; Ilya, Esther, all of them. And his Giselle. Now there was nothing. Had there ever been anything?