The long shoe, p.20
The Long Shoe, page 20
‘So you think Harriet is being held in the penthouse flat?’ he asked with a doubting grin.
‘I think there is an unbelievably remote chance that she might be. I mean, no, not really is the honest truth, but it’s an itch that I need to explore.’
‘I suffer a lot from itches. It’s usually best to get stuck in and have a good grate on them. You have my sympathy in that respect.’
‘Do you think she could be in there?’ I asked. ‘I mean, those curtains look like a real one-off job to me.’
‘No, it sounds fucking ridiculous. No way would Moody get his hands dirty like that, and think about it: if she was in his penthouse, she would have screamed the place down by now.’
‘Do you think I should go to the police?’
‘Absolutely not. They would probably try to section you.’
‘So what should I do?’ I pleaded, sounding every inch a pipsqueak.
He took a long treble gulp from his pint of Guinness and rubbed his nose as if it had been recently peppered. ‘I reckon you should break into the penthouse. See if she’s there. Put your mind at rest.’
I laughed. ‘And how do you propose I do that?’
‘Easy. You’ve got a master key, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t work for the penthouse.’
‘Hmm, that’s a shame, a big shame. Let me have a think.’
Hot Dog got up out of his seat and I watched him make his way to the toilets. When I turned back to address my pint, I saw Justin Hamper approaching me at quite a pace and with a rabid look in his eyes.
I tensed up in my seat. He arrived at the table and stood looking down at me with his fists tightly clenched by his side. He was making that same chewing motion with his mouth that he had utilized when he confronted me outside the church. He clearly wanted to fight. I thought of his magnificent buttocks and perfect torso. It was definitely a fight that I would lose.
‘I know it was you,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘You’ve robbed me of my son, Kiara, and my home. You need to fucking pay for this.’
‘You’re wrong, just calm down,’ I replied with my hands out in front of me, indicating a request for peace and understanding. ‘Like I told you, I haven’t ever spoken about your son to Laurence. I have no reason to. Have you spoken to Derek yet?’
‘Get up!’ he barked.
‘No, I won’t. Why don’t you let me get you a drink and we can talk this through?’ I suggested.
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Yes, you do, you’re on the wine every night.’
I immediately realized my mistake. He would know that I had been watching him. I wondered for a split second if I had got away with it. I hadn’t.
He lunged forward and pulled me out of my seat, spinning me round as he did so and dumping me on the floor, flat on my back. Then he jumped onto me, straddling my stomach, and raised his fist into the air ready to pummel it into my face. As I waited for the blow to land, his face suddenly flew out of my vision as it was kicked, full-on under the chin, by a chunky-soled black boot.
I raised myself up to see Catherine deliver a further stamp to his head as he lay on the floor moaning in pain. Another barperson joined her and they dragged him off the floor before marching him out of the pub.
When they reached the door, Hamper managed to turn his head and shout towards me, ‘It’s not fucking finished!’
I crawled back onto my seat and breathed heavily in an attempt to calm my panic.
‘Thank you,’ I said to Catherine as she passed by on her way back to the bar.
‘Don’t mention it,’ she replied. ‘Like I said, I’m still keeping my eye on you, innit.’
Soon after, Hot Dog returned from the toilet.
‘Fuck it, let’s do it tonight,’ he announced, completely unaware of what had just occurred. ‘I’ve missed this sort of action and it’s not as if you’re going to get any sleep thinking that your girlfriend is a few floors above you in distress. I’ll knock on your door at eleven. Make sure you’re ready.’
When I didn’t reply, Hot Dog seemed to notice something was amiss.
‘Jesus, Jigsaw, you look very pasty. What’s the matter with you? You need to stop worrying. I’m Bill fucking Hoover. The job will be a breeze. But I can’t have a pipsqueak by my side when I’m doing a breaking and enter. Make sure you’ve found your knackers by this evening. I want you ready and fully functioning.’
‘So, how do we get into the penthouse without a key?’ I asked, rather more loudly than I intended.
‘Pipe the fuck down, will you? Listen, I’ve broken into more homes than you’ve entered legally. You’ll just have to trust me on that.’
‘What shall I wear?’ I asked.
‘Clothes,’ he replied.
‘Do I need to wear gloves?’
‘No. Actually, yeah, you should wear some gloves. And a hat – a hat would be nice. See you at eleven p.m. sharp.’
He ruffled my hair, got up and walked out of the pub, leaving me to contemplate that I had just agreed to commit a burglary. I had never done anything remotely illegal in my entire life. It didn’t seem real; it just felt like a game that was getting out of hand.
I thanked Catherine again on my way out. Back in my flat, I sat with Monson on the sofa.
‘So you’re really going to break into that flat?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, probably. Well, I don’t suppose I’ll be doing any breaking but, yeah, I’m up for it. I think.’
‘I keep telling you to phone the police, but you won’t listen.’
‘Laurence will throw me out of this flat if I get the police involved. We would be homeless. Is that what you want?’
‘We wouldn’t be homeless. You could shack up with that mad woman Carol and I could live with that bloke at the old house. It’s a decent menu he serves up there. Not a dry biscuit in sight.’
‘I’ll take you there now if you want.’
‘Nah, I’d like to see how this plays out.’
Monson jumped down from my lap and walked over to the window to have a good stare at the buildings outside.
‘Do you miss not having a garden?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t bother me. There was a lot of trouble out there. It could get very real – a lot of grudges and beefs. I was always living on the edge, waiting for the door to open so I could get back inside.’
He placed his arms out in front of him and lowered his back into an arch to stretch out his spine before jumping back onto my lap.
‘I’ll tell you what I do miss,’ he said.
‘What?’ I enquired.
‘Harriet,’ he replied.
I watched some TV but couldn’t concentrate. I found a roll of kitchen paper and some cleaning spray marked ‘All Purpose’ and wiped down the kitchen surfaces and appliances. The spray wasn’t as versatile as it claimed and the oven door and all the metal trims came out in a kind of cloudy rash. I started to unpack a few more of the boxes from the move but everything I removed seemed to be linked with a Harriet memory and turned my thoughts towards the gloomy.
I went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. The noise from outside was far more noticeable in here, so I put on my headphones to block it out. The rim of the headphones dug into my temple if I put my head in its normal napping position, so I gave up on that and went back to the lounge and tried to listen to a podcast about a serial killer in Wisconsin. The presenter’s voice was far too upbeat for the subject matter and started to get on my tits. I turned it off and sat myself down at the kitchen island, desperate for a diversion from my dismal thoughts.
I turned on the mixer tap at full pelt to see what that offered me. Very little, it turned out, apart from a wet shirt and a wipe-up job that I didn’t have the impetus to carry out. The peculiar plate was on the island, so I drew it towards me and started to operate the handle. The musical box melody broke the silence within the flat and gave me a simple focus to help calm the tension inside me. It was a decent purchase – too expensive, but decent. I continued to turn the handle round and round and round. It was going to be a long wait until 11 p.m. arrived.
38 CAROL
Okay, it’s time that you heard from me. I expect that tart Harriet has had her say, so why not me? I’ll be brief, because, unless you’ve had the joy of actually knowing me, you’re probably not that interested. You might not like what you hear, but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. Are you enjoying life as much as me? I very much doubt it, darlings.
I’ve lived at my house in Hither Green ever since my divorce ten years ago. It’s by far the largest and most important house on the street. My husband was a property developer and I did very nicely indeed out of the financial settlement. He fathered my two beautiful daughters, so I’m grateful for that, but otherwise I remember him as nothing more than a selfish bore. I was never in love with the man, but definitely appreciated the lifestyle he gave me. I tolerated his affairs and his drinking in return for living a life of leisure and, let’s face it, indulgence. Opening my legs for him if and when required was a small price to pay and an equally small organ to accommodate.
Now, I know I’m not supposed to say it, but it’s true, so I will: I’m a very good-looking bird; always have been, and don’t see that changing anytime soon. I’ve had a boob job and a bit of lipo on my flanks, but it’s just fine-tuning. The face and hair are the most important things and mine are A1, off the charts. It’s a fact, and if you don’t like hearing it, it’s probably because you’re a jealous cow or know that you could never attract someone like me. Am I right?
So, my marriage was unhappy but I was happy within it, if you know what I mean. I was a superb mother to my daughters. In times of distress, they would always come to me rather than their nanny, and never to their father – not that he was around that often to provide any support to either them or me. When the youngest left home to join her sister at boarding school in Hampshire, I did become a bit bored and restless. Only to be expected, I suppose. That’s when I discovered my new hobby: breaking up other people’s marriages. It was easy; men are so weak and most women too gullible and trusting.
Lots of couples like Matt and Harriet have moved into my neighbourhood over the years. Not many of them stay for long; they sell up and move to more desirable areas with nicer shops and better schools. I will never move. I like being a big fish in a dirty, overpopulated pond, and better still, it’s the perfect hunting ground: positively teeming with happy couples. I try to target the childless ones, but if the husband is particularly vulnerable, I’m happy to make an exception.
I think I have put paid to three or four marriages these last six or seven years, and caused a good few hiccups in a number of others. A couple of women have seen me coming and blocked me off at the pass and a few husbands have been strong or foolish enough to resist my advances. Actually, I think those are my favourite – the ones that think they can hold out against me. But believe me, they are few and far between. I’ve been at the very top of this game for a while now.
You might ask what pleasure can possibly be taken in causing all this heartbreak and misery, and my answer is simple: it’s the thrill of the chase and the defeat of the foe. It’s the oldest pleasure in the book. When I look out of my bay window and see yet another bedraggled man loading his car with his treasured possessions as the woman he loves watches on tearfully, the joy I experience is immeasurable. I stand proud in the certain knowledge that I am far from the saddest bitch on the block.
But I suppose what you really want to hear about is my involvement with Matt and that splashy cow Harriet. I didn’t like her the moment I stepped (uninvited of course) into their house and saw her knelt on the floor sorting through her cheap little trinkets and decorations. She didn’t even bother to stand up when I entered. Fuck you, darling, I thought, and started blowing the charm right up Matt’s backside. I was pleased to see that this fresh target wasn’t too bad-looking at all. He was a bit on the short side, but nicely presented, with a pleasant, friendly face and a reasonable body. He was clean and well-mannered and I like that in a man; it’s usually a sign that they are pliable and compliant. As I left their house, I could feel him drinking in my amazing arse (it’s superb; you would really have to see it, or better still have a good knead on it). I could tell already that this one was going to be easy.
I sussed her out immediately: reserved and lacking confidence; common as muck but thought she wasn’t. She had a ridiculous bleached blonde masculine haircut that didn’t suit her personality one bit. In fact, I suspected it was a substitute for a personality, because she never displayed such a thing whenever I was in her company. Worst of all, she was Northern. For God’s sake, why come down here and blight us with your small-minded ways and chips piled high on your shoulders? I liked it best when the woman involved despised me. It intensified their hurt when the deed was done. To my delight, after just a few short weeks of my passive aggression, she deliberately faded herself into the background, giving me more opportunity to work on Matt.
He turned out to be a more difficult prey than I had expected. Yes, he fancied the pants off me (of course), but the stupid boy also turned out to be lonely. That’s not a good thing for my game. Firstly, it keeps them furiously loyal to their partner, and secondly, they are more interested in finding a friend than taking a lover. So, that’s what I did. I made him believe I was his friend and kept her at a distance. I reasoned that he would cave in eventually and fall in love with me, just like all the others.
And then the opposite happened. I fell for him.
It came to a gushing crescendo when I invited him and his tart to stay with me in my holiday home in Palm Springs. I’ve always felt more lustful and energized in the sunshine… Bikinis, boxer shorts, tanning oils and cocktails – it all gets the juices flowing. Am I right?
Harriet was pretending to be ill, or jet-lagged, so as to spend as much time apart from me as she could. Matt, bless him, fell for her excuses and so left her alone to ‘recover’. We had the time of our lives, swimming, joking, drinking and generally fooling about. I made sure to screech and laugh as loud as I could, knowing that each outburst would cut through Harriet like a knife.
One afternoon, I used the age-old trick of asking Matt to oil me up with sun-tan lotion. As he rubbed it onto the back of my thighs, I could sense excitement growing inside him; his breath became shorter and heavier and the motion of his hands was becoming less functional and more sensual. I smiled to myself.
Gotcha! I thought.
Then he abruptly stopped the massage and rushed back into the house without a word of explanation. He re-emerged through the patio doors about ten minutes later wearing a different pair of shorts. He asked me if I wanted another cocktail and I declined. While he was making himself his drink, I wrote a little note of encouragement and placed it on his lounger. It made it quite clear that he could have me if he wanted and that I wouldn’t spill the beans to Harriet. I thought this would be the final nail in his coffin.
He read the note as soon as he sat down then turned to me and said, ‘Please don’t do this, Carol. We’re friends, and I love it that way. I could never cheat on Harriet.’
I think that was the actual moment I fell in love with him. Instead of seeing him as a mark, a man to seduce and then discard, I actually wanted him for myself. This had never happened with any of the other mugs. The game had changed direction. I can still remember the feeling as if it were yesterday. It was not meant to happen and I hated myself for letting it transpire. The only solution was to banish the little Northern tart and have him run directly to me in his desperation. Even if it hadn’t worked on Matt, I thought my little note would be the perfect catalyst. So, I crushed it lightly in my hand and discarded it on the floor by the pool house, where it stood out like a sore thumb.
Later that day, when Matt and I returned from a wonderful trip up the mountains in the cable cars, I checked on the note and it was gone. My trap had been set. I could tell by her demeanour that Harriet had swallowed it whole. The poor cow was seething. I just had to sit back and wait for the day when he emerged from their rented house deflated and defeated, straight into my arms. I mean, it probably wouldn’t happen quite like that, but forgive me for being a dreamer.
When they got back from their holiday in Palm Springs, Matt commenced a period of unemployment. I would watch from my bay window every morning to catch him leaving for his morning walk to the park, and soon I started to follow him five or so minutes after and then join him in the park café, where he always stopped for a coffee. Soon enough, this became a regular thing, and I had the best of times pulling him deeper and deeper into my clutches. I was sure it wouldn’t be long before Harriet would implode. I bet she looked at that note every single day and tortured herself wondering if Matt took up the offer.
It all came to a head last Sunday evening. The water had come to the boil and the egg was cooked. She knocked on my door and, without a word of welcome, strode through into my kitchen all huffy and entitled like the little frump she is. She took the note out of her pocket (she kept it! I KNEW SHE WOULD) and triumphantly presented it to me as she demanded an explanation. I offered her nothing but some platitudes and a classy smile. I think she realized she was defeated because then, without warning, she grabbed the glass of wine out of my hands and punched me hard in my face. I have to give her credit; it was a very good shot. I was fucking furious but managed to keep my calm. She slammed the door behind her and doubtless burst into floods of tears on the street outside. It was a wonderful moment.
The following day, the good news arrived. Matt popped round all gloomy and distraught to tell me that she had up and left him. He showed me a note she had written. It was pathetically overdramatic and needy, ‘I might never be back’ or something equally splashy. I comforted Matt and began the process of convincing him that he was better off without her. I speculated that she’d probably gone off with another man. I mean, she probably would meet somebody else in the end, so it didn’t really matter that my time frame was slightly off. Am I right?
