Chain Reaction (45 page)

But Irene had never minded.

She enjoyed taking care of William.

Oh, William.

Well, now it is my turn, and I’m only sorry you’re not here to see it.

Irene Peacock once again readies herself for bed. It’s all such a struggle these days. She eases herself up off the chair and pauses, resting on her stick for a moment, wondering if it is possible that she might need the sort of permanent care that a Retirement Home could give her. She would find it difficult, now, to cope at home without a great deal of help with the shopping, the cooking, the laundry. Sometimes, and she admits this only to herself, she can scarcely walk for the pain in her legs. For a long time now she has avoided looking in her mirror because the person she sees there is not the person she wants to be. Inside herself she is still sixteen with the whole of her life ahead of her; she has all the passion, all the silliness, still there under the grey hair and wrinkled skin, the scraggy chest and varicose veins. When she eventually pulls herself into the bedroom, moving slowly, putting one foot in front of another and using the table and chairs for support, she feels like a toddler learning to walk. It is as if she has made no progress at all in the long years in between.

What is the point?

What is the point of all this fuss?

Perhaps she should have just let them sell the flat after all.

So many people have been hurt in the process—Frankie, the children, Miss Blennerhasset, and now the poor dear Queen herself has been put in an embarrassing quandary because of it. And will Mrs Peacock feel any better at the end of the day? At best she will be allowed to remain in her flat, but for how long? Six months? One year? Perhaps two if she’s lucky?

We shall see.

‘T
HAT’S THE FLAT,’ SHOUTS
Vernon above the hubbub and clamour.

‘The one with the spotlight right on it.’

‘Gosh, Dad, how awful,’ and Suzie shields her eyes from the glare. ‘How awful’ seems to be Suzie’s stock phrase ever since she came home for Joy’s funeral.

Joy would have been proud of her children, Vernon thought vaguely on the day, as he stood there, numbed, in the crematorium chapel, when everyone’s eyes were tranced in thought, manners subdued and voices low. There had been a post mortem, of course. The undertakers were so sympathetic, the very oil of sympathy, the distilled essence of courtesy, understanding and consideration, given the terrible circumstances. Vernon’s muddled thoughts rambled over the last few days. Everything assured him that he was perfectly safe. He wondered if there was a God, or a Devil to whom he had sold his soul, and if this meant he would be unable to enter Heaven. No, surely not, he reasoned with himself. The idea was preposterous and only a prop for those who find the need to worship, a similar role to that of the Royals, who were under threat at that moment. And Vernon, nursing his guilty secret, knows what it’s like to be under threat.

He went through tortures choosing a suitable coffin, knowing how much prestige and style meant to Joy, and how important it was that she went off in style, even into the fiery furnace. Vernon shuddered. For not only has he murdered his wife but he has shifted the blame to an innocent man and so is doubly damned, if, in fact, God is in his Heaven and all’s right with the world.

Which it’s not.

He was given Joy back in a jar and wondered what to do with the ashes. Ideally, Joy would have enjoyed being scattered in the city centre arcade, or in Monsoon or Next, but of course Vernon couldn’t do that. After leaving her on the mantelpiece for a day or two he went and sprinkled her down the end of the garden where she’d enjoyed so many happy gossips.

And at the house afterwards he chose the most expensive finger buffet on the caterers’ list just as Joy would have wanted, hang the expense. He can only trust that the Middletons are still going ahead with the purchase. He made a point of assuring them that he’d rather the deal went through, in spite of the tragic situation, but they hadn’t seemed able to take it in. Too harrowing, he supposed. He was surprised at how many people came to the funeral. Since Joy’s tragic and terrible death Norman Mycroft at the bank has changed his tune entirely. Well, nobody could continue attacking a man who has suffered as Vernon has suffered, and Vernon has an idea that someone had a strict word with him from above. At any rate the terrible fellow has been moved from overdrafts to mortgages—
not
a promotion, he was pleased to note—and replaced by the young woman with a bob and sensitive eyes who used to deal with travellers’ cheques. Mrs Eccles insists on wearing ill-fitting suits like female weather forecasters, a silly mistake which makes Vernon warm towards her, and her name was on the bottom of the note of sympathy sent to him by the bank.

And now here they are, drawn, as so many people are, to the siege of the century, the very flat which Joy and Vernon intended to make their last home.

‘You told us she’d moved here early because you were afraid we would overreact if we knew she’d gone missing,’ Suzie shouts back, hanging on to her father’s jacket for fear of being lost in the crowd, just as she used to in her childhood. ‘Poor, poor Dad, how awful for you! Having to cope with all that as well as the shop going down the pan. It’s incredible that Mum wouldn’t tell us the truth. We both honestly believed all was well and that you were only moving because it would be more convenient. And to think it was just a facade!’

‘What about all those lies she told Adele next door,’ Tom calls from the crush. ‘I spoke to her at the funeral, she was very sympathetic, but nobody really believed Mum and you were moving into that cottage. Everyone knew exactly what was happening. All she was doing was making a fool of herself. Poor Mum, she must have been very sick at the end.’

‘Perhaps, who knows. Could be it was a happy release after all,’ says Suzie thoughtlessly.

Tom is appalled. ‘How can you possibly think that, Suzie, after the horrible way that she died?’

‘Thank God they’ve got him, that’s all I can think about now,’ says Vernon, leading the way to a hole in the crowd beside the police security van.

They have come here this evening because none of them could bear the thought of another sad evening at home playing rummy. Apart from the horror of the latest events, the three of them have little in common. Tom and Suzie are their mother’s children, and dressed accordingly—Suzie in a neat navy outfit with large white high heels and Tom in a linen jacket, smart striped shirt and tie. Suzie’s cooking is the sort of clean, sterile affair her mother’s had been, nothing sloppy, everything undercooked as is the vogue these days, raw vegetables and even the lamb she did last night was served pink with some sort of herb sprinkled on it. During the day, of course, they picked at the funeral fare which seemed to taste of sawdust and ashes or perhaps that was just Vernon’s guilty taste buds joining all the other rebellious parts of his body.

For Vernon is not a well man. The doctor has increased his blood-pressure pills and he is on tranquillisers and sleeping pills at night to cope with the shock. In fact, the shock, which was so apparent to all who saw him, was one of the most convincing aspects of his innocence, not that the police believed for one minute the ravings of Jody Middleton who is still being held at the station. They applied for several extensions to hold him in custody until their enquiries were completed and the lad appears before the Exeter magistrates tomorrow. No, the shock which genuinely came upon Vernon, was caused, he knows, by the sudden and complete change of character which crept over him the minute he started accusing somebody else for his crime and actually believing that to be true.

Never before in his whole life, until now, has Vernon done anything shoddy or mean. He has always owned up to his misdeeds, he has been kind and gentle, thoughtful and caring to those about him, never forgetting to shut field gates behind him, never dreaming of emptying his car ashtray in lay-bys as some downright ignorant people do, and happily hurrying to the police if ever he found a purse or a ten-pound note or a stray dog. The same as most other people of his generation really, but now he has committed two ghastly crimes and he’s not even certain which is the worst, Joy’s death or his wicked denouncement of that poor boy Jody Middleton.

If, at first, Vernon suffered from fear of exposure, it diminished with every day. Not in a living face anywhere could he see a trace of doubt or questioning. He cannot believe that having committed such a brutal murder, life can go on so quietly and unremarkably. That one memory anaesthetised, all is amazingly peaceful even though they are only one week away from that bloody afternoon which he has shut away in a locked cupboard of memory. Poor Jody hadn’t a leg to stand on. Just as Vernon suspected he would, the youth left an assortment of clues behind him at
Hacienda—
fingerprints lay everywhere, and even shoeprints leading to the well made by his trainers, while no clue to Vernon’s visit existed. Vernon, schooled for so long by Joy and his house-proud mother before her, is always careful to clean up behind him. The police haven’t even tested the car in which Joy took her final ride—to the shops, he said, and they had no reason to disbelieve him.

‘And she never returned?’

‘No, she never did,’ said Vernon sadly.

‘And so you told the story about her moving into the flat in order to protect your children?’

‘I did, yes,’ admitted Vernon, ‘although I know now I should have confided in them. It was just that Joy was always covering up for herself, for me, for the plight we were in, and I suppose I automatically did the same thing.’

‘That’s understandable, Mr Marsh. You have nothing to blame yourself for.’

‘Perhaps if I’d been honest with myself and gone to you people earlier…’

‘There was nothing you could have done, sir. Your wife was probably killed quite quickly after her disappearance. You must not be so hard on yourself.’

Everyone is so kind. Everyone has always perceived Vernon as a nice, gentle man; all the neighbours in the cul-de-sac, all his fellow sufferers in the arcade, they all told the police what a lovely person he was. Happily, they can’t see into his head.

And he is, really.

It’s just that he was pushed right over the edge, lost his marbles for a hellish few seconds, reached the end of his tether and Joy happened to be in the way when he picked up that iron. The police have not found the murder weapon although they have scoured the area, and of course poor Jody can’t help them out although they spend hours interrogating him.

All around Swallowbridge is an atmosphere of excitement and carnival, with the savoury smells of food wafting from the stalls, the arc lights, the sense of expectation and the comforting feeling of so many people uniting as one against the enemy. What will happen next? Will the Queen put in an appearance? In spite of their mother’s tragic death, both Suzie and Tom have flushed faces and delighted eyes tonight. Joy, of course, would have rebuked them for joining in with the rabble: ‘What’s the matter with staying at home and watching it on TV? You don’t need to go there in person in order to show your support. You can phone it in, look, there’s special phone-lines set up for the purpose.’ No, Joy wouldn’t be seen dead at a public event such as this. ‘Making a spectacle of yourself,’ she would have told Vernon, ‘among the hoi-polloi.’

Much as he is loath to admit it, Vernon is gradually finding life without Joy a happy release himself. A blessing. He had always believed that he loved her, and maybe he did, but being without her has its plusses which he is beginning to appreciate, and it is rather like a rebirth. He is looking forward to selling the house if it all goes through, eager to rid himself of all those expensive and, he suspects, tasteless knick knacks. Naturally he offered her clothes to Suzie and she rummaged through them with alacrity. Vernon hopes she will take them with her when she goes because they are just too irritating to have cluttering up his bedroom cupboards. He has already pulled out of the deal to buy Flat 1, Albany Buildings, and under the circumstances everyone understands. Even the estate agent with his five gold rings managed to be courteous. The press were trying to pull him to pieces for his perfectly innocent behaviour, but these days anyone who is not 100 per cent behind Mrs Peacock is against her. Vernon was relieved to pull out. The prospect of a rented room to keep as spartan or as messy as he likes appeals to him greatly after his life of furniture polish, lavatory fresheners and plastic sheeting on new suite covers. He will furnish his new home with old chairs from junk shops, comfortable chairs you can pick up for a song, and a homely old bed with a creaking mattress.

‘Oh Dad, how awful,’ declared Suzie when he shared his new plans. ‘Just because Mum’s dead you still need a home to call your own.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Vernon decisively. ‘That is just what I
don’t
need. I intend to make my new life free of possessions and responsibilities.’

‘That’s just the shock talking.’

‘No, Suzie, it’s not. I have worked for a lifetime to accumulate the things that I have, and they bring me no pleasure. They brought your mother pleasure, yes, but now she is gone there’s no point in cluttering my life with stuff I no longer need. I am opting out of the consumer society, Suzie, I am turning my back on it for good. I shall pick up the dole if necessary and go for long walks every day by the river, or play cards with friends, or sit in the pub and put the world to rights. I might even get myself a dog if my landlord will allow it.’

‘Oh God, how awful, Dad,’ proclaimed Suzie sadly.

And Tom is as bad, accumulating, consuming, borrowing, worrying, working all hours to provide for his wife and baby. They have long discussions about cars and washing machines and microwaves and personal computers, the best models, the state of the art, and have you read the latest report from
Which?.

‘If you’re not careful you’ll end up like me, working my guts out and making yourself ill, and for what, Tom—
for what?