How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (6 page)

He shinned up the ladder with the grace of a mountain goat, belying his build. Reuben picked up a stack of tiles, placed them in position on the conveyor belt and watched them climb slowly up to the roof. This was easy, he could handle doing this all day.

No such luck, of course. After he’d sent several loads of tiles to the roof, Wayne held up his hand and inclined his head for Reuben to join him.

Reuben turned off the machine and walked over to the ladder. He put his foot on the bottom rung and took a deep breath. ‘Don’t look down,’ the mantra echoed in his head as he climbed up the ladder. He stepped cautiously on to the roof and immediately looked down.

His head spun. The tile elevator swam into view, an alien mechanical being with its long tentacle, and beyond it the path and the lawn wavered. He looked away and trod gingerly over to Wayne, who was squatting on his haunches as if he pried a tile loose. Beyond him were roofs and trees and acres of sky – it was as if he were walking on top of the world. There was something solid and comforting about the ground – you knew when you stepped on it that it wouldn’t suddenly move away from you. No wonder the Pope always kissed it when he got off an aircraft.

Wayne peered up at him. ‘You all right, mate?’

Reuben nodded. ‘Just getting my roof legs.’

Wayne had stacked the new tiles in heaps around him. ‘As I rip up the old tiles, I replace them with the new ones. Take half this lot and stack them on the other side.’

‘Right, boss.’

Reuben picked up a couple of tiles. As he turned to move off he heard, ‘Hey, mate.’

Wayne sat back on his heels, eyes mocking.

‘You’ll be getting nowhere pretty fast with two at a time. Not scared of scraping your delicate little hands, are you?’

‘Just being ecological, saving energy.’

‘Save your ecology for lesbian, disabled tree frogs.’

Reuben stacked four more tiles on top of his load and started off. The tiles were heavy and the dust on the roof made it slippery. Staring down at his feet and trying to think of anything but how far he was from the ground, he made it to the other side of the roof. He put his load down and went to collect another. By the time he’d made ten return trips, the sweat was trickling down his face.

‘You can help me here when you’ve finished,’ Wayne said.

As Reuben started across the roof with the last heap of tiles, he looked down again. He felt dizzy and his legs wobbled. As he bent over to put the tiles down, his foot slipped. He looked down and saw his foot sliding down the steep angle of the roof, the other following behind. He tried to scramble back up using the weight of the tiles to brace him, but the surface was too slippery. He looked down again. The pool shimmered, rising up towards him then receding again
. For God’s sake don’t let go of the tiles
! He held on with all his strength but the tiles were rough against his fingers and he was losing his grip. He managed to hold on to two of them, clutching them to him as he made his inexorable journey down the roof. The edge of the roof came up to meet him and he caught a glimpse of deckchairs, pot plants and a timber deck as he sailed past them into the pool.

As he hit the water he heard an almighty crash. He knew instantly what it was. The coldness of the water took his breath away and instantly numbed him all over. As he rose to the surface, coughing and spluttering, he looked towards the deck. In his fear and panic, he’d lost his grip on the two tiles. The deck was splattered with a myriad of tiny pieces of orange terracotta.

‘Holy fucking Jesus!’

Wayne stared down at him from the roof, open-mouthed. The French doors onto the deck flung open and Mrs Landers was about to step out when she saw the mess.

‘Oh no!’ She put her hands to her head. Then she looked over and saw Reuben hoisting himself out of the pool – a laborious task with boots full of water – and shrieked, ‘Oh, my God!’

Wayne scrambled down the ladder and surveyed the damage. He looked at Reuben, cap in hand, clothes plastered to him and water pooling around him. He opened his mouth as if to give him a roasting, then clamped it shut and shook his head.

‘What’s the water like, mate?’

Guffaws followed. Reuben looked over to see a line of faces grinning at him over the fence. The rest of the work crew had arrived.

***

‘Oh, Rubie!’

Carlene stopped in mid-chop of a shallot, knife poised. ‘Tell me you’re joking!’

‘I could tell you I’m joking, but it wouldn’t be a joke.’

‘You fell into the pool? And broke all the tiles? On the first day?’

‘I didn’t break all the tiles, only two. And thanks for your concern, but if the pool hadn’t been there, I would have probably smashed myself to bits as well.’

Carlene threw the chopped shallots into the pasta sauce. ‘What is it with you and jobs? You’re jinxed, I’m sure of it.’

‘It was an accident, it could have happened to anyone.’

She sighed. ‘But it never does happen to anyone, it always happens to you.’

She sat down at the table with her head in her hands. ‘So I suppose Wayne fired you.’

Reuben uncorked the bottle of shiraz he’d bought on the way home to help soothe the troubled waters. He poured out two glasses.

‘No, he didn’t.’

He handed Carlene a glass. ‘But I resigned anyway.’

She looked aghast. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s a shit way to earn a buck and there’s got to be something out there that’s better.’

There was no way he would admit to her that just the thought of getting back up on the roof made him dizzy.

‘Jesus, I just don’t get you. You’re offered a job with good pay, the boss is prepared to keep you on even when you stuff up and you just chuck it in! So much for gratitude!’

‘Gratitude’s got nothing to do with it. It was good of Wayne to offer me the job but it just isn’t my thing. Give me a chance, I’ll find something, I promise.’

Carlene narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not doing this on purpose, are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe you’re deliberately sabotaging these jobs because they’re not your thing. Or maybe deep down you think you’re not good enough for them. Self-sabotage, it’s called. It’s in the book I’m reading,
The Psychology of Manifestation.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with self-sabotage. I’m just not good at those practical, hands-on jobs.’

After a glass of shiraz, Carlene relaxed and her cheeks took on a rosy sheen. ‘I’ll have another word to Dad,’ she said as they sat down to dinner.

Reuben refilled her glass and took her hand in his. ‘I think I’ve done my dash as far as your father’s generosity goes. Leave it to me, honey. Dave at the job agency is confident he can find me something really soon.’

CHAPTER 5

‘No good news, I’m afraid.’

Droopy Dave shuffled through some papers. Reuben was sure that if Dave scored him a million-dollar job, he’d break the news with the same hangdog demeanour.

‘Have you thought about what I suggested last time?’

‘About what I liked doing as a kid? I spent most of my childhood working out how to get the maximum amount of money for the least amount of effort. And that’s still my ambition.’

Droopy Dave looked sadly at Reuben and shook his head.

‘The same could be said for us all. Unfortunately those sorts of jobs don’t exist – not for the likes of us, anyway.’

It was obvious he meant ‘not for the likes of you.’

‘We’ve just had funding cutbacks, which means we’ve had to downsize our service delivery and re-prioritise our programs. So at the moment I can’t offer you anything specific, but moving forward I’m hoping for some positive outcomes.’

‘So I’m supposed to come in every fortnight, for you to tell me there’s nothing you can do for me?’

Dave permitted himself a slight turning up of his mouth.

‘I know it’s a part of your parole plan, and I hope that despite the current circumstances we can work together to achieve your goals.’

The only goal I have is to not have to come here and look at your ugly mug.
How did people like that get these jobs? Perhaps he should put in an application for Droopy Dave’s job. As he walked the three blocks to the parole office, he entertained a vision of himself sitting at Droopy Dave’s desk with Dave on the other side, body sagging and melancholic eyes brimming with tears.

‘It’s unfortunate that the company has to let you go,’ Reuben said, ‘but when you don’t meet performance objectives…’ He shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘But moving forward I’m sure we can employ some initiatives with a view to a positive outcome. I’ll get back to you in a few months.’

He was still replaying this satisfying scene in his head in the waiting room of the parole office, when a door opened and Lucy said, ‘Come in, Reuben.’

She wore tailored slacks, shirt and jacket, a corporate look that accentuated her femininity. A subtle musky scent wafted in Reuben’s direction. It made him want to bury his face in her bare skin and drink it in, slowly, from head to toe.

He stretched his legs out and clasped his hands in his lap.

‘How are you today?’ Lucy said.

She sounded genuinely interested. And it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was pissed off at Droopy Dave and the world in general. But his tongue was in knots. Just being in her presence mesmerised him. She radiated the glow of good health and contentment; her husband undoubtedly gave her a regular rogering. Who wouldn’t, if you were married to her?
Think about something else, for fuck’s sake.

‘Reuben?’ Lucy prompted.

‘Oh ... fine, thanks. How are you?’

‘Pretty good, thanks. Any luck with employment?’

Employment. His brain came to a dead halt. Of course, jobs. Should he tell her about his latest failure? At least it would prove he’d been trying.

Lucy leaned forward with an encouraging expression, a triangle of chest showing above the top button of her blouse.

He gave her an account of his exploits on and off the roof. By the end of it she was laughing, tiny laugh lines fanning around her eyes. Reuben laughed too, ecstatic that he had made her laugh.

‘So what’s next in the adventures of Reuben Littlejohn?’ she asked. ‘Sounds like it should be a movie.’

‘Great idea, but unfortunately movie star doesn’t pop up too often in the "Situations Vacant".’

She asked him a few more questions. Any financial troubles? No. How’s your wife? Fine. How are things at home? (subtext, how’s your relationship?) Fine. (subtext, every time we make love I think of you).

All too soon she was writing out his next appointment. He racked his brain to think of something to prolong the interview.

‘So what’s next?’ he said as he signed the appointment slip.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m on parole for three years. What’s the plan for the long term?’

‘That depends on a lot of factors.’

She tore off the appointment slip and handed him his copy. He longed to brush his hand against hers, but that was overstepping the mark. The last thing he wanted was for Lucy to think him creepy.

‘Once you get a job, if you’re financially secure and everything else is okay, I can extend your visits to once monthly, perhaps less often further on.’

That was a major incentive not to find work.

‘But there’s no set time frame, so let’s just see what happens.’

She stood up. ‘Good luck. I hope you don’t have any more disasters to tell me about next time.’

Reuben returned her smile, drinking in the sight and smell of her to file away in his memory, before opening the door.

***

Not feeling in the mood to go home, he went into Joe’s Cafe and ordered a coffee. Nina, who was taking orders, was unmoved by his cheery greeting. Reuben picked up a copy of
The
Courier Mail
from the counter and took it to his table. He flipped through to the ‘Situations Vacant’. Disability care workers, sales assistants, labourers, you had to have qualifications and/or experience for every job. Perhaps he should do a traffic controllers course, it was only two days according to the ad. Standing in the sun for endless hours, swatting flies and being abused by motorists – there had to be an easier way...

Nina appeared with his coffee.

‘Thanks, Nina. You make the best coffee.’

‘Thank you.’

Her manner was as crisp as her white blouse and apron. As she turned to leave, Reuben said on impulse, ‘You don’t have any jobs going here, do you?’

She looked hard at him, as if trying to gauge his seriousness. ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘What sort of job?’

‘Making coffee, cleaning, kitchen hand, anything. Oh, except taking orders and money. I, er ... prefer not to have customer contact.’

‘Not that I have anything against customers,’ he rushed on, ‘but I’m more a behind the scenes man.’

‘I see.’ She looked sceptical. ‘There’s nothing going at the moment. You can leave your resume if you want.’

‘I haven’t got one with me. I’ll drop it in.’

He watched her walk away. She wore a short black skirt, stockings and flat shoes. Her build was wiry - her legs, though thin, were well shaped and she moved with an easy grace. Even though he wasn’t in the least bit attracted to her, the image of her in bed with him popped up in his mind - all bones and angles, not enough rounded flesh to grasp, although the swelling under her blouse suggested that what flesh she had was concentrated in one area.

One of the effects of being deprived of female company while in jail was that since his release, he’d fantasised about every woman he saw who was remotely passable and even some who weren’t. Once he even had a vision of himself fucking Merle – why, he had no idea, but it was an image so horrifying he expunged it immediately from his mind. What would Carlene’s psychology book make of it? He decided it was a perverse part of his mind testing his limits of revulsion.

He turned his attention back to the ‘Situations Vacant’. ‘Pizzazz Promotions wants you right now – jobs available for people of all ages, shapes and sizes. Film and TV work our specialty.’

Then the magic words. ‘No experience necessary.’