‘He’s quite sweet, isn’t he, husband?’ Letitia picked up the naked doll and waggled its legs about. She spoke to it. ‘You wouldn’t kill a big man would you, sweetie? No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re too itsy-bitsy, aren’t you?’ She turned to her husband.
‘Is Fox’s body around?’
‘Yes, he’s still in cold storage. Apparently his liver is of great interest to the Alcohol Abuse boys. In fact, reading his report, I wonder how Fox actually managed to function at all. Dreadful condition for a man in his late thirties: lungs shot to hell, varicose veins, piles, furred up arteries, hammer toes, thin skull, pea brain, brittle bones, dandruff, clogged up sinuses, polyps up his nose, athlete’s foot, overweight, pyorrhoea, ingrowing toenails … small contusion at the base of the skull, caused by our Action Man friend but no real damage. I don’t think our Coventry did kill Mr Fox, Letitia. I think he probably killed himself Apoplexy! … Heartsome news, eh?’
Letitia hit her husband playfully on the back of the neck with the little naked soldier. ‘Would you have bothered with all this if Coventry had been as ugly as sin, husband?’
‘Probably not, wife,’ admitted W.D.
24 Derek Wipes the Surfaces
One afternoon after work, Derek Dakin saw the widow Carole Fox open the door of her council house and shepherd her four little daughters inside. ‘Plucky little thing,’ he thought. ‘I must go over and give her my condolences.’ Eight days had passed since her cruel bereavement. Derek went to the bookcase and looked up ‘condolences’ in a Victorian etiquette book, Manners and Rules of Good Society by a Member of the Aristocracy, but there was nothing in it about the correct procedure in which a meeting could take place between the husband of a murderess and the widow of her victim.
‘Play it by ear,’ thought Derek, and he left his house and crossed the road and knocked on No 12. Four-year-old Kirsty Fox opened the door.
‘Is your mummy there?’
‘Yes, she’s on the toilet.’
Derek told Kirsty that he would wait on the doorstep. A chain pulled upstairs, water flushed and Carole Fox clumped down the narrow stairs. When she saw Derek she flinched back as though Derek were about to fly at her with clenched fists.
‘You frit me to death,’ she said.
Derek winced; her local accent was very pronounced. Derek had almost succeeded in eradicating his.
‘Mrs Fox, I’d just like to say how very sorry I am about…’
‘S’all right.’
‘You must be devastated.’
‘What?’
‘Devastated.’
‘What?’
‘Devastated.’
Carole nodded, thinking that it would get rid of him quicker if she agreed.
‘How have the little girls taken it?’
She lowered her voice. ‘I ain’t told ‘em yet, they think he’s on ‘is ‘olidays — in Penzance.’
‘Oh, but didn’t they watch … ? See? Weren’t they exposed to the sight of . . . ? What happened …?’
‘Oh yeah, they seen it, but they din’t know ‘e was dead. They was used to seein’ ‘im lying about on the floor with ‘is eyes closed. ‘E was an ‘eavy drinker, y’know.’
‘And how are you?’
‘Who me? Oh, I’m all right; it’s peaceful without ‘im. Your wife done me a favour. He wudda done me in before long. I ‘ated ‘im.’
‘Could I step inside for a moment, Mrs Fox?’
‘Well, I’ve not ‘ad a chance to clean up yet today,’ said Carole, as though Derek were an inspector from the Ministry of Clean Houses.
‘There’s something I must know.’
‘All right.’
Carole led the way into the living-room, kicking articles of clothing aside as she went. The little Fox girls were sitting on the floor eating bowls of cornflakes. The television was showing close-ups of open-heart surgery. Afternoon viewing. Carole and Derek sat at a table at the far end of the room. Derek looked out at the Fox garden — a brown and grey plot of earth which contained no living plant. Wrecked dolls’ prams constituted the only border.
‘Do you read a daily paper, Mrs Fox?’
‘Who me? No, ‘e used to, but I’ve got me ‘ands full with the kids.’ Derek mentioned to Carole that the popular press were suggesting that her dead husband and Coventry had been having an affair. Did Carole know anything about these suppositions?
‘Who me? As I say, I’ve got me ‘ands full. He went out every night but … they say the wife’s the last to know, don’t they?’ Carole’s eyes flicked to the television and she watched throbbing arteries until Derek spoke again.
‘I’d like to do something for you, Mrs Fox.’
‘Who me? What kind of thing?’
‘Dig the garden … shelves . . . I’m very good with my hands. And you’ll need a man about the house now, won’t you?’
‘Who me? Why? I never ‘ad one before.’
‘Are you all right financially?’
‘Money?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m better off, now. I’ve got me social sorted. We’re better off all round, really.’
Derek felt slightly cheated. There was a mini-packet of tissues in his trouser pocket. He had expected to whip them out for the moment when the grieving widow broke down. Mrs Fox’s perspicuity unsettled him. He decided she was in shock, deep shock. They watched in companionable silence as a surgeon’s lackey stitched up the chest cavity and made everything neat and tidy for the patient. When the programme ended Derek went into the poorly equipped kitchen and made Carole and himself a nice cup of tea. Then he tackled the washing-up and wiped the surfaces down. It was the least he could do.
25 The Widowing of Dodo
Nobody in Cardboard City, not even the stupefied alcoholics, manages to get a healthy eight hours’ sleep. Dodo and I settle in our box at midnight but we usually wake at three o’clock. There is nothing else to do then but share a careful cigarette and talk.
Dodo told me how she was widowed three years ago. ‘Geoffrey and I were driving back from the country; we’d been staying with Tobias Marrows-Callandine … lovely house … listed Grade Two. Georgian or Saxon or something. Sixteen unheated bedrooms, foul dog, wonderful lake — anyway we were tootling along in the Porsche; I was driving, very carefully, over the Hammersmith Flyover. We were laughing rather hysterically about the weekend: poor old Marrows-Callandine had claimed that his wife was ill and couldn’t get out of bed and do all the hostessing and stuff Naturally I volunteered to go up and take her a tray — that sort of thing. Marrows-Callandine turned me down, very emphatic he was. Said his wife had expressed the wish to be completely ignored over the weekend. This was on Friday night, anyway, where was I? . . . Yes . . . By Sunday morning I’m desperately searching the bloody house for a fan heater. I ask you, middle of winter and one log fire in the entire house. I go into this dark bedroom, put the light on and see Lucia Marrows-Callandine lying in bed. She has two black eyes, a broken nose and four missing teeth. Poor cow starts to whimper, says she loves Tobias and forgives him; and could I bring her a Mars bar or something because she hasn’t eaten for a day and a half.
‘Of course I tackle Tobias on this and he says, “Poor Lucia, she had a tantrum on Friday morning, dishwasher overflowed or something, and she beat herself up.”
‘So Geoffrey and I were laughing at what the bullying turd had said. Then Geoff reaches over into the back and picks up a bottle of Coca Cola. He lifts it to his mouth, a cat runs in front of the car, I brake and the Coca Cola rams down the back of Geoff’s throat, blood everywhere.
‘Geoff died. Didn’t take long. My mother’s such a snob. I rang her from the hospital to tell her the news. She said, “Coca Cola? My God, will it be in the papers? Couldn’t you say it was Malvern Water?”‘
With such stories we keep ourselves interested, though not always amused. I have told Dodo nearly everything about myself— except my name and the fact that I am a murderer.
26 Carole Fox?
??s Evidence
CAROLE: It were about five o’clock. I’d just put the lights on in the living-room.
CORONER: The room that faced the street?
CAROLE: Yes. I heard him come in. I could tell by the way he opened the front door that he was in one of his moods. Then I heard ‘im goin’ mad ‘cos the doormat had got caught under the door. Anyway he come in the living-room and he’d been drinking.
CORONER: How did you know he’d been drinking?
CAROLE: Because he was drunk.
CORONER: Thank you. Carry on, Mrs Fox.
CAROLE: Well, the girls got out his way. They’re not daft — they knew there’d be trouble; and he walked round the room a bit, finding fault, like he always did. He shouted at me because the clock had stopped. Then he had a go because the kids’ toys were still on the floor. Then he started going on about Jennifer, she’s seven, saying that she wasn’t ‘is. She’s got red hair, you see. The others are dark, like him. Then he got proper worked up and said none of the girls was ‘is, ‘cos none of ‘em ‘ad ‘is nose; and he said that I’d got to write down the names of all the men I’d been with.
CORONER: By ‘been with’, I assume your husband meant — men that you’d slept with?
CAROLE: No, I didn’t sleep with any …
CORONER: No, I’m sure you … carry on.
CAROLE: He fetched some Basildon Bond I’d had for Christmas, and a pen from the sideboard, and he pushed me down on the settee and told me to write the names of these men. All the time he was shouting about how I was a slag, and he knew I slept with the meter readers who came to the ‘ouse.
CORONER: And your daughters were still in the room at the time?
CAROLE: Yes, they were in the corner, near the telly. They were too frit to move or owt. Anyroad I were makin’ up men’s names and writing them down. To tell the truth I were between the devil and the deep blue sea. If I didn’t write owt he’d give me one for not doin’ as I was told, and if I did …
CORONER: Would you like a moment … a glass of water . . . a tissue?
CAROLE: No, I’m all right. Sorry, I’ve gotta ‘anky. He were goin’ mad, shouting as how he’d go round and beat the . . . sorry, he said a swear word … out of anybody on the list. He said I wasn’t fit to bear the fine name of Fox and that I’d dragged him down and it were my fault he’d never got on in life. His face were like a beetroot and his eyes was bulging out is ‘ead. I could see the veins in his neck all sticking out and sort of throbbing. I thought, ‘Oh God, Carole, ‘e’s goin’ to kill you!’ Normally, when he’s, like, in one of ‘is moods ‘e chucks stuff about …
CORONER: You mean he throws objects?
CAROLE: He throws owt. I’ve ‘ad more than objects thrown at me . . . anyroad this time ‘e didn’t. So I knew I were really gonna get it; an’ I did. ‘E started kicking me legs while I were sittin’ down. Then ‘e pulled me up by me ‘air and started punchin’ me face. The girls, the girls … they . . . well they …
CORONER: When you’re ready, Mrs Fox. Please, take as long as you need.
CAROLE: Well the girls, they were cryin’ and sayin’, ‘Daddy don’t’ and things like that. Then he got me by the throat. He were like somebody on the telly; he’d gone mad. He were chokin’ me and screamin’ at me. Then Coventry from over the road come in and ‘it ‘im with the Action Main and he dropped down straight away, and blood came out of ‘is ears.
CORONER: Did Coventry, that is Coventry Dakin, say anything before or after she hit your husband?
CAROLE: She said sommat like, ‘I’ve had enough of you’ before she ‘it im; and after she ‘it ‘im she said nowt. She just run out and nobody’s seen her since. Well, nobody round ‘ere ‘as.
CORONER: Mrs Dakin lived opposite you?
CAROLE: Yes, at Number 13.
CORONER: Your curtains were not drawn?
CAROLE: I ‘adn’t drawn ‘em, no.
CORONER: So Mrs Dakin was able to watch the events prior to your husband’s death?
CAROLE: I don’t know, sorry. Could you say it again …?
CORONER: Mrs Dakin saw your husband beating you up?
CAROLE: She must have. She ‘adn’t drawn ‘er own livin’-room curtains. It’s not the first time she’s seen ‘im have a go at me.
CORONER: Mrs Fox, you said your husband dropped down straight away and blood came out of his ears. Did blood immediately come out of his ears or did some time pass before you saw the blood? Think carefully, please.
CAROLE: It come out as soon as ‘is ‘ead ‘it the carpet. Some splashed out on me zebra-skin rug in front of the fire. ‘Is ‘ead bounced, you see, and the blood come out.
CORONER: Thank you, Mrs Fox. You have been an excellent witness. You have the jury’s sympathy and mine.
CAROLE: Thank you. If it wasn’t for Coventry I think it might have been me lying dead, instead of ‘im. She done me a favour.
CORONER: The jury will disregard those last remarks. Thank you, Mrs Fox.
CAROLE: Sorry. Thank you, your Honour … sorry, Mr Coroner. Shall I go back to where I was sittin’ before?
27 Saturday Morning on the Algarve
Sidney and Ruth’s sweaty bodies made a loud slurping sound as they separated from each other, like trifle being lifted from a dish. Ruth blushed and hid her face under the damp sheet. Sidney lit a cigarette then lay on his back, with a Portuguese folk art ashtray balancing on his damp belly. It was the last opportunity they would have for leisurely morning sex. Tomorrow morning they would have to be up and packed and getting into the car for the hazardous drive to the airport.
The bedside telephone rang. Sidney knew that this meant trouble, so he let it ring. On and on and on and on. Ruth stuffed her head under a pillow.
‘Sidney, please.’
‘No, let it ring.’
‘It might be my mum.’
‘It won’t be, I gave her the wrong number.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re awful, you are. You really are, Sidney.’
Sidney admired his wife’s body as she got up from the bed and padded around on the tiled floor, looking for her kimono. The telephone continued to ring.
‘Sidney, answer it, it’s hurting my ears!’
‘No. Jesus, you’ve got a fantastic tan, Ruth. Your back’s the colour of Marmite toast. No, don’t put any clothes on yet, I want to look at you.’
‘You’ve done nothing but look at me for a fortnight. It’s creepy. Sometimes you give me the creeps. You’re never satisfied. You’re not normal, Sidney. I mean it’s not as if I’m nice to look at, is it? … ANSWER THE PHONE!’
‘No, come back to bed.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Yes. No!’
Ruth had played submission games in the past. Once or twice she had even enjoyed them, but now, with the telephone ringing and with the aquarium smell of sex still on her, she was not playing. She meant ‘NO’. She walked out of the bedroom and into the shuttered living-room where she answered the other, more ornate telephone.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Lambert? Mrs Ruth Lambert?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Inspector Sly, Mrs Lambert. I was just wondering if you’ve heard anything from your sister-in-law, Coventry?’
‘Yes, she phoned in the week. Are you a policeman?’
‘Did she say where she was?’
‘Yes, London. Has she had an accident?’
‘Is your husband there, Mrs Lambert?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could I have a word with him?’
Sidney was still lying on the bed. He was holding a hand mirror up to the underside of his erection.
‘Sidney! For God’s sake, what are you doing?’
‘I was just checking for testicular cancer.’
‘Don’t tell lies Sidney, you were admiring yourself Nobody smiles like that when they’re checking for dancer. You’re wanted on the phone; it’s a p
oliceman… something about Coventry.’
Sidney lifted the receiver from the phone by the bed.
‘Sidney Lambert speaking.’
‘Detective Inspector Sly here, sir. Truscott Road police station. According to your wife, you’ve been withholding information from me. When are you back in England?’
‘Sunday afternoon, late,’ said Sidney. His erection rapidly subsided.
He also put the phone down.
28 How the Other Half Live
Dodo wants to go home and collect some clothes. She wants me to go with her. Home is where her brother lives in London. We will have to be careful because Dodo thinks she is wanted by the authorities. She lacks a signed bit of paper saying that she is perfectly sane. I have always feared authority. I am a pedestrian, yet I’m scared of traffic wardens. I don’t know why this should be.
We are going out begging this morning; Dodo says that Saturday is always a good day. In the afternoon we intend to rebuild our cardboard house, and then, in darkness, we are going to Flood Street, where Nicholas Cutbush lives with his wife. There are no Cutbush children; Nicholas has got unreliable genes and his wife has a career.
This is how we beg. We always approach women of our own age and Dodo’s class. We prefer harassed-looking women carrying shopping bags. They are not hard to find. We stand outside an exclusive department store (when I was a child I thought you had to be a member to get inside the only such shop in my home town). Dodo and I always carry Harrods carrier bags. We sleep on them at night to iron out the creases in the plastic. When we see a sufficiently harassed woman, we go into action. Dodo bursts into tears and shouts out in an anguished way, ‘Oh my God, it had everything inside it — my purse, my Filofax, my prescriptions, my insulin,’ then, when the harassed woman’s attention is gained (nine times out often), ‘Oh no! Oh no! … The children’s baby pictures!’