The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (71 page)

“Are you all right? I saw them throw it and tried to catch them, but I was just too far away.”

She did sound breathless, as though she’d been running. And she had a nice voice, rich and deepish, and very warm. It sounded so safe and sure that I came over even more wobbly than
before, which was barmy. Children always do it if you’re too sympathetic when they’ve bumped themselves, but I was old enough to know better.

“Hello? Are you all right? My name’s Sophie Allen. I live just round the corner. I’m perfectly respectable. Can I come in? Give you a hand? There’s a very good glazier I
know who does our windows whenever we’re burgled. I can give him a ring for you, if you’d like. Are you there?”

So then I stammered out something idiotic and opened the door. And there she was, just about my age but much younger looking. She wasn’t having to hold down all that fury, for one thing.
Or not by then. I found out later that she’d been through the same sort of thing in a way, but she’d got over it. People do. Or so they say.

“You poor thing,” was all she said. But she came right in, put an arm round my shoulders and nearly pushed me towards the kitchen. I’d hated that, too, being able to see into
the kitchen from the front door. It really drove the down-shifting bit home.

She knew all about the house because hers was exactly the same. They all are in those little streets between the commons. She had my arm under the cold tap in seconds. The firmness of her was
lovely then, just as safe-making as her voice. The brick and the malice of it were washed off just like the blood. They came back. But for a bit they’d gone. She kept on talking and I
didn’t really listen to the words, just the sureness of her voice.

It sounded as though she knew everything that mattered and would always help but never ask the sort of questions you didn’t want to answer. She always did see a lot, and she knew what you
could take and what you needed – and offered it straight off. Always.

When she’d got me bloodless and dried out and bandaged up, she called the glazier she knew and swept up the glass, found the Hoover and sucked up the splinters from the beanbag, too, and
even Hoovered my jeans. I wouldn’t have thought of that, but she was right; there were chips of glass caught in some of the seams. I saw them gleaming as she sucked. It was a weird sensation,
that powerful pull all down my thighs and her lovely, warm matter-of-fact voice, telling me what she was doing and why and what the shock of it all was doing to me, and why I was feeling so awful,
and who she thought the children were who’d thrown the brick and how it wasn’t me they were throwing it at but the old bat who’d lived there before us. She’d been a bit of a
witch apparently, always complaining about ordinary noise and making a great fuss about children playing in the street. They still do that, round here. I couldn’t believe it at first:
rollerblading in the middle of the road, chucking balls about. As though they weren’t ten minutes’ walk from two huge open spaces. And they always did make a bit of a row. I saw what
she meant: the old bat, I mean, who in a way caused the trouble because if she hadn’t upset them in the first place, they wouldn’t have chucked the brick and none of the rest of it
would’ve happened.

“But there’s a SOLD sign outside,” I said at the time. I remember that. It was nearly the first thing I’d said in the torrent of all the comfort she’d poured out.
I’d meant to say something about how amazing it was to find a friendly neighbour in a place where I’d never expected to, but all that came out was that peevish little protest.
“Can’t they read?”

“Probably not. Lots of the more delinquent ones can’t. I’m a woodentop, and I see a fair amount of children like them.”

“A woodentop?” I thought I hadn’t heard properly, but she smiled, a great huge smile that showed off her perfect, white teeth. Mine aren’t like that: crossed over at the
front and a nasty grubby colour like stale clotted cream. Ugh.

“Magistrate,” she said, laughing. She had a lovely laugh, too, and none of us had laughed for ages, not happily like that. “No one calls us that these days, but in the old days
they did and I like it. Now, you’re glass-free. You’d better have something hot. Tea? Coffee? God! I sound like an air hostess, don’t I? Shall I put the kettle on?”

And so she made herself at home. I liked it, which I’d never have let myself do if it hadn’t been for the brick and the blood. I sat on the beanbag, looking at the jagged great hole
in the window and thought about the violence of South London and how much I hated it and how scared I was even though I couldn’t afford to be. They say it’s changed now, but in those
days it was pretty rough. So there I was, thinking how amazing it was that she was there, and perhaps even in South London there would be people to meet and like and talk to. Damn! I’m
forgetting the copy-editing again. But I can’t stop once I’ve started. Sorry. I don’t often talk as much as this. Well, I do actually, but it feels new each time I do it and I
always mean not to afterwards.

There was one little bit of glass she’d missed. Even she’d managed to miss one and it lay on the scrubbed board just near a stickying puddle of my blood, glinting. It was a sunny
day. All the days that summer were sunny. It seemed unfair in a way.

She came back with the tea, very strong, tea-bag tea. It tasted like her, strong and warm and helping. Then we just talked. She was still there when the woman who was doing the school run to the
local comprehensive dropped my two off and she stayed to tea and made them laugh and helped with their homework. Then she went, giving me her number and telling me she’d drop in again. She
only lived round the corner.

It wasn’t for weeks that I got round to asking her for supper so that John could share in it all. I suppose in a way I’d wanted to keep her as my treat. But then it seemed selfish,
so I fixed it so that he could meet her too.

When he took one look at her and said, “Sophie?” in that surprised but blissful voice I suppose I knew what was going to happen. I was angry with her for not telling me she knew him,
but when I looked at her I saw that she was just as surprised as he’d been. She knew my married name, of course, but I never talked about John because it would have been disloyal and so
she’d never made the connection; she’d been married, too, for about ten years and so he hadn’t recognized her name when I’d talked about her.

That was it, really. They tried not to, I think. They really did try, but she was just so much better at making him feel all right than I was. I understood that. She did it for me, too, when he
could only make me feel miles worse. In a way it wasn’t what they did that made me so angry. It was what he said when he’d made his decision, as though I’d be pleased to hear it,
as though he was giving me something again after all.

“If it wasn’t for everything you’ve taught me I’d never have been able to love Sophie as she deserves. I couldn’t do it when I first knew her because I didn’t
know enough. It was you who taught me how to know people and let them know me. It’s all your doing, Penny. You’ve shown me how to be all the things she wanted me to be then and I
couldn’t. We owe it all to you and we’ll never forget it.”

I won’t either. Not ever. You see, that was when I
did
want to kill him. But even then, if I hadn’t been jointing the chickens when he said it and had a sharp knife in my
hands, we’d still have been all right. I know we would.

Allan Guthrie

“We’re long past our sell-by date.” Trevor switched his grip on his cane. He’d been clutching it hard for ages now and his hand was clammy. What were
the bastards up to, taking so long to get here?

“Bollocks,” Harry said. “We’ve got a good couple of years in us yet. We’ve defied the odds so far. I’m looking forward to old age. Has its perks. You can spit
on the floor and beat nosey children with your cane.”

“But after a while,” Trevor said, “you’ll get tired of lying in a pile of your own shite.”

“Or somebody else’s.”

“What’re you saying? If anything, you’ll lose control of your bowels before me.”

“At least I can still get it up.”

“Fuck you. Anyway, that’s not what I mean. Just making a point,” Trevor said. “We shouldn’t be here. Not at our age.”

“Fuck, we’re not in our seventies yet. Don’t write us off. I can see the day when we’ll need special adult undergarments. I long for that day.”

Trevor didn’t move. He couldn’t, not without his brother’s help. The settee was too deep. A faded old two-seater, that’s the best the fuckers could come up with. Stuffed
out of the way in a room that was some kind of cleaning room. A hoover, mop in a bucket, stink of furniture polish. The bank manager had had to move a cardboard box full of rubber gloves and
dusters before they’d been able to sit down. When he left, he’d locked the door behind him.

Where the fuck were the police?

Trevor said, “I once gave a blind man a blow job, you know.”

“You did not.”

“Did.”

“Not.”

“You were asleep.”

“Shite.”

“You were.”

“I’d have woken up.”

“You were drunk. Paralytic.”

“Then you must have been too.”

“You can’t hold your drink. Anyway, it’s true. Back at Aggie’s—”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Well, I’m telling you.”

“I’m not listening.” Harry started singing. But he couldn’t drown out Trevor’s voice. Especially after Trevor started shouting. Harry gave in, asked, “What
happened?”

“He wandered into the bedroom by mistake. I heard him scuffling around, banging into things. I put on the light.” Trevor adopted a high-pitched voice. “I spoke like
this,” he said. “Made him think he’d walked into a lady’s room. Completely fooled him.”

“But why?”

“For fun.”

“No, why did you blow him?”

“He asked. Completely up front about it. And I felt sorry for him.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“A selfless act,” Trevor said. “Some might say it was noble.”

“Wonder what he’d think if he knew you were male.”

“He’ll never find out.”

“I could tell him.”

“But you don’t know who it is.”

“Bet I can guess.”

Trevor said, “How the fuck?”

“How many blind people stayed at Aggie’s?”

“Three. At least.”

“One was a woman, so it wasn’t her. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance of me getting it right.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you.”

“But I know, anyway.”

“No way.”

“Do too.”

“Ah, away and shite, you old fuck.”

The two old men were silent for a while. The sound of traffic seeped through the walls behind them.

“Who was it, then?” Trevor asked.

“Not telling.”

“You don’t fucking know. You were asleep. You don’t remember it. So how can you know? You can only guess.”

Harry shrugged. Well, as much as he was able to. “This conversation is over.”

“Fine.”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Good.”

“Well, shut up.”

“I will.”

“How did you turn out gay, anyway?”

“I’m not fucking gay.”

“You gave a blind man a blow job.”

“So?”

“That’s pretty gay.”

“You think so? How do you explain Edna, then?”

“Okay, so you’re bisexual.”

“At least I’m sexual.”

“What’s with you today? You’ve done nothing but pick on me from the minute we woke up.”

Silence.

“The surgeon’s in town.”

“Huh?”

“The surgeon.” Trevor stared at Harry’s annoying blank face. “
The
surgeon.
Our
surgeon.”

Harry looked away. “Shut up about that. It’s not happening. You want to end up like Carslaw, back in ‘98?”

“Don’t remember him.”

“Yeah, you do. Big guy. Talked about cars all the time?”

“Vaguely.”

“Went into hospital for a hip replacement,” Harry said. “Never saw him again.”

“Died?”

“Escaped. Outran the bastards, him and his dodgy hip.”

“Yeah?”

“Course not, you thick twat. He went under the knife. Didn’t have the heart for it. Went to sleep and never woke up. You don’t remember?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus. Maybe you’re senile already.”

“Fuck off.”

“Can’t speak to you. Don’t know why I bother.”

Trevor said, “Leave me alone then.”

“I will.”

“Give your pecker a tug.”

“You sure you don’t want to?”

“Fuck off, you dirty bastard.”

“Well,” Trevor said, after a while, “I expect an apology at the very least.”

“For?”

Trevor crossed his arm over his chest. Said nothing.

“Huh?” Harry said. Shook his head. “Okay, I’m sorry I said you were gay.”

“Not that. I don’t care about that.”

“Thought you wanted an apology.”

“I do. But not for the gay remark.”

“Well, what, then?”

“What do you think?”

“Fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to know?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“No,” Harry said. Thought for a minute. “Nope. Nothing.”

Trevor looked him in the eye.

“Well, maybe,” Harry said. He looked down at his hand. He was better with his hand than Trevor was. Maybe because Harry was right-handed.

“Say it.”

Harry sighed. “The robbery? Us ending up here?”

“Great fucking guess. You’re a fucking genius.”

“Sarcasm’s unbecoming.”

“Oh, but robbing a fucking bank without telling me is okay?”

“Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Like I had any choice.”

“You knew about the gun.”

“Yeah, but how was I supposed to know what it was for?”

“What’d you think if was for?”

“I dunno. Self-defence?”

“Oh, yeah. You really believed that.”

“Lots of kids about, what’re they called, hoodies. You know they’ll fuck us over, pair of old codgers like us, joined at the hip. Anyway, that’s what you said.”

“I lied. You always know when I lie.”

“Not this time.”

Silence. “So, you’re claiming you had no idea? Not even an inkling?”