To Catch a Creeper (35 page)

‘Four years I’m here just waiting for my chance. Lots of promises, no results. And then in waltzes Cathy, a housewife, no qualifications, nothing. Not a bloody clue about advertising. And instantly she’s Turks’ golden protégé. It’s Cathy Cath Cath, voice of the masses.’

‘The cheek of it,’ Janet nods. ‘I can see why you’d be…’

‘
Bummed
.’ I finish for her. It’s no use. I start to giggle.

Alice turns on her and this time we can both see the viciousness under the sweet face.

‘Shut up! Just shut up,’ she yells, as Janet and I fall about, tears of laughter in our eyes. ‘You’re not in the least bit funny.’

‘So you tricked me,’ I say, still stunned by the realisation. ‘Buggered up my presentation.’

‘Just because you thought you had a bum deal,’ Janet says.

‘Yeah,’ Alice sneers, looking immediately older and meaner. ‘Well, you’ll have a job getting Turks to believe it.’

‘Maybe not.’ A voice comes from the corridor. A door opens and Turks is there with a thunderous expression, Stetson pushed back on his head. ‘You’re fired, Alice. I want you out of this office now. And I don’t appreciate being called old blubber lips. Cathy, we need you back here asap. Don’t worry about Viv, Gurlet and Lewis. I’ve given them a stern butt-chewing about team building. Rosa told me what’s been going on.’

I swallow, touched. ‘Thanks Turks, but I think we both know I’m not really cut out for advertising. However I do know someone who is.’

‘Oh and who’s that?’ He turns, still simmering and stares Janet up and down, taking in her corporate suit. ‘You?’

She shudders. ‘Hell, no.’

‘Honour.’ I jump in. ‘OK, she lied her way into the job, but doesn’t that show creativity? She’s bright, hard-working, hungry and all that time she spent in the clanger, obviously formed a fertile imagination. She’s seen the dark side, Turks. Walked the green mile.’

He gives it some thought. ‘Hmm, yes, see what you mean. Criminal record, eh? Bunch of pretentious pansies around here. We could use someone with an edge…’

‘Wait a minute.’ Alice is apparently having trouble taking everything in. ‘Are you saying…this was a set up?’

‘Tit for tat,’ I counter.

‘And by the way, Alice,’ Turks hitches a thumb in his jeans and surreptitiously checks his reflection in the window glass. He nods, apparently satisfied, and tips his hat forward. ‘I’m still in my thirties. Old enough to be your dad, your arse.’

***

‘What I just can’t work out,’ Pimple comes round next morning with a big bag of doughnuts, ‘is why Peter the Post felt he had to rob the properties in the first place? He wasn’t deathly poor by all accounts. He didn’t go out buying himself fancy cars or anything, did he?’

‘Apparently had a grudge against Hardwick and Wiles.’ I drop two teabags into a couple of cups. ‘His girlfriend was moving here to be with him, the sale fell through and she lost heart. They broke up shortly after. It was his last chance to get away from his domineering mother and they scuppered it. He was fuelled by hate.’

‘Then why did he go for Mrs Baker’s place when she wasn’t even on their books?’ She pulls out two plates and places a doughnut on each. White icing with jam filling for her and chocolate with cream filling for me.

‘Police said he wasn’t after Mrs Baker, he was after me. I held the only evidence, his brass ring clasp. He went back to the vet’s to find it. She was at home, told him that I had it but then she pulled at his mask and he ended up killing her – accident, he says. She fell backwards down the stairs.’

‘So he’ll be charged with her manslaughter, attempted murder and assault against you and I suppose all the burglaries. But why…’ Suddenly Pimple holds her hands up to her face. ‘Oh my, would you have it? Lordy, lordy. Don’t look now. Walking down the road. Our new postman.’

He swaggers up the drive, bag hanging loosely off his right shoulder, new uniform all shiny, whistling away, cap at jaunty angle.

‘Taken over from Peter,’ he addresses Pimple’s open mouth as he hands me two letters.

‘Thanks.’ I hold them up to the light.

‘Not bills I hope?’ he chortles and bends his head in an enquiring way.

‘Even if they are, my husband will pay them off right away,’ I say flirtatiously. ‘He has the means.’

‘I’m sure he has, ma darling.’ He pinches my bum.

‘Handsome devil,’ Pimple smiles as he walks off again and heads down the next drive. ‘If he could only lose that ginger hair.’

‘I kind of like that ginger hair,’ I sigh. ‘Goes with those blue eyes and soft Southern Irish lilt.’

‘So you told him about your being fired and everything?’

‘Some of it. But I’ll go into more detail tonight. We’re going out for dinner, celebrate his new job. We thought we might try… Oh my God, what’s happening over there?’

We both stare across the privet hedge at Mrs Baker’s house. Three cars have pulled up. Two official-looking men step out of one, a pair of police officers out of another – one of whom I recognise as Inspector Willis, the cop who interviewed Neil. In the third is
Eleanor, accompanied by two men, one in a white coat, one long and lean wearing a smart dark suit.

‘No fear!’ We hear Mrs Baker yell.

‘It’s for the best, Mother,’ says the long, lean man, who has the same face as Eleanor, only a tad younger and rather less masculine. Must be Eric, her brother.

Pimple and I trot over.

‘What’s going on?’ I enquire.

‘They’re trying to lock me away,’ Mrs Baker senior whines. ‘Sending me to that horrible Walnut Oaks death camp.’

‘It’s nothing like that, Mother,’ Eleanor protests.

‘Yes it is,’ Mrs Baker screeches like an animal in pain. ‘Ils vont m’avoir mis dans l’asile.’

‘Sûrement pas,’ Pimple steps forward.

‘What did she say?’ I nudge her arm.

‘French,’ Pimple hisses to me, then louder to Mrs Baker. ‘Tenez votre coeur pour une seconde comme si vous avez des douleurs.’

‘What are you both talking about?’ I ask Pimple again.

‘I told you she was losing it, Eric,’ Eleanor says as her mother starts tugging at her heart.

‘All the stress is no good for her health,’ says Pimple.

The doctor steps forward, pulls out a stethoscope and places it against her chest.

‘Retourne enculer les mouches.’ I hear her mutter as her eyes start to close.

‘Oh, Mother,’ says Eric, ‘Don’t, please. We don’t have to…’

‘But we do!’ says Eleanor fiercely. ‘I told you about her underwear showing and…’

‘Her pulse is OK.’ The doctor reassures them.

‘I’ll kill myself if I have to go to Walnut Oaks!’ Mrs Baker begins to screech. ‘I’ll kill myself!Pass me a knife, somebody!’

‘Oh Mother,’ Eric jumps forward.

‘Look…stop… You folks… Please… PLEASE!’ I climb on top of Mrs Baker’s recycling box which is full to the brim with cardboard and tin cans and hold my two hands up high above my head. ‘
Everyone
walks around from time to time with their skirts hitched in their knickers, food dribbled down their jumpers, bobbles on their cardigans. We
all
forget names, spell words wrongly, mispronounce things, look for glasses that have been left on our foreheads. Our homes and cars are never as tidy as we’d like, our ovens never self-clean when they say they will and often,
yes often
, there’s a ladder or two in our tights. Sometimes…’ I punch both my fists down in a kind of ski-ing movement. ‘We’re…all…like…
that
…’ I stop when I suddenly realise I’m copying part of the Rhona Cameron’s speech from
I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out of Here!
‘Er…at least I am.’

‘Who’s she?’ I hear the two officials mutter.

‘She’s from the Nominated Neighbour service,’ Mrs Baker senior says proudly.

‘Shoosh,’ I quickly hush her and turn to Eric. ‘I’m not just that. I’m a…a…’

What am I?

Mother?

Wife?

Friend?

Founder of the HPWWOCS?

All four?

Or…

‘Just a neighbour. A caring friendly neighbour and as long as your mother wants me to, I’m happy to help, do a bit of shopping, watch out for her well-being. I’ll keep anyone’s number you like on my noticeboard and…’

‘And I’ll do any cleaning that’s required…free of charge,’ Pimple pipes up.

‘Cleaning?’ I say in surprise. ‘But I thought you were giving it up?’

‘Well, maybe I should keep my hand in, just in case. Cleaning ladies learn an awful lot of information, you know. Besides,’ she says in a low voice so only I can hear. ‘Now Mrs Baker’s threatened to kill herself, she can be our first client.’

‘Well,’ Eric looks hesitant, ‘if you’re definitely certain you don’t mind keeping half an eye open?’

‘For you, Eric, I’ll keep open a whole one,’ I grin at him. ‘Us Crouchenders are a close-knit community, you know.’

I spy the postman who’s returned from his round and has been listening at the back of the little gathering.

‘And I’ll do all her fuses and fences,’ Declan says in a strangely gruff voice. ‘Make sure she gets all her mail OK. And supply her with free eggs.’

‘You will?’ I say, astonished.

‘Least I can do, my Cathleen.’ He kisses the top of my head. ‘Very least I can do.’

***

You see I started off my life assuming most people are entirely sane, then I find out one of my neighbours wasn’t. But over time I kind of changed my mind about that, thinking I was being paranoid because one nasty incident had occurred. Then not many months later my mind was influenced again by a counsellor who kind of made out that most people
were
slightly mad, my husband and new neighbour included, so I’d assumed the worst again, which really isn’t a good thing to do.

Declan’s now perfectly happy and any signs of insanity are just the usual insanity of all men in their early forties having suffered two kids and a lengthy marriage to a not so perfect wife and mother.

It’s like the way advertising’s going, people are generally apathetic. For example, organ donors. People can’t be arsed signing up to donate on their death, yet neither can they be bothered ticking the box saying they don’t want to. Thus the opting-out method means many more organ donors, which obviously is a good thing. In fact a hugely important thing.

Now if you could put that all that passivity into an advertising campaign, you could… Oh, but I’m not in advertising any more, am I?

No. I’m Cathy O’Farrell – Founder of the HPWWOCS.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ellie Campbell is a pseudonym for sisters, Pam Burks and Lorraine Campbell who collaborate across the mighty Atlantic from their respective homes in Surrey, England and Colorado, USA, finding writing together a great excuse for endless phone conversations. Together they have written three previous novels
How To Survive Your Sisters, When Good Friends Go Bad and Looking For La La
. They love any chance to connect with their readers and you can reach them at:

www.chicklitsisters.com

twitter:
@ecampbellbooks

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