Six Dead Men (11 page)

Ire sorted through his dead mother's papers methodically. The furniture in the living room was pushed back against the walls. Paperwork littered the floor. An ordered paper city was being constructed before him. With a labelling machine he categorised each section of a new box file and then began laboriously re-filing the papers according to his own system. He used his Canon mini scanner and copier so that he could have copies for the subsidiary folders he had created. These copies would go directly into the new box file with its colour coded labels. Any unwanted paperwork he deposited in a large black bag.

Ire stood and surveyed his new mini world. He smiled at the patterns of order he had created. Feeling like a giant he walked the floral carpeted streets between his paper tower blocks, placing his feet precisely to avoid toppling the precarious structures. He wound his way towards the kitchen.

A quick coffee and then I’ll finish the re-filing. Finally it will be done properly.
I wonder what she had stashed upstairs? A load more junk no doubt. God! I suppose I’ll have to stay in the spare room tonight so’s I can get it all done. The longer I leave it the less I’ll want to sort it all.

*****

Upstairs Ire found the biscuit box in a top most corner of her built in wardrobe. Everything else except for that biscuit tin on that top shelf was covered in a layer of dust. The edges were a gold filigree scroll type affair.
So bloody tacky. Typical pound shop stuff.
It didn’t matter how much he had tried to drag his mother out of her working class roots by giving her money and buying her decent things, she always went back to her old money saving ways.

He was on the verge of chucking the evidence of his mother’s clutch at her social class without opening the tin, but its pristine condition, given the dishevelled state of the rest of the cupboard made him hesitate. He tossed it on the naked mattress of her bed and began sorting through the rest, cramming it unceremoniously into colour coded bin bags; black — rubbish, green — EBay, white — further investigation. He wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of moth balls the clothes and cupboard emitted and sneezed a few times as dust eddied round him.
I hate the stink of moth balls. Shit! She should have used bloody potpourri instead. She was so damn fond of it.

He picked up a glass bowl filled with potpourri from the dressing table and tossed it into a new black bag. With a sweep of his arm the littered dressing table was cleared in one fell swoop. Bottles, cans, tins all clinked together as they tumbled into the darkness. A waft of potpourri drifted out of the bag. Ire double knotted the bag and stood it against the wall in a neat row alongside the other four bags.

After a shower, skin still damp, with a towel round his waist and a mug of Lavazza oro in hand, Ire began to prize the lid from the biscuit tin. The pointe shoes were the first surprise.
What the ... shit! Was she a dancer?
They were clearly very old - a faded dirty pink, the toes re-stitched several times, the satin tie ribbons frazzled and unravelling. With a shoe in each hand he looked at them. Some cherished quality seemed to leak from the ballet shoes and Ire placed them to one side on the kitchen table with a certain degree of care.

The corsage came next. It dropped petals when he handled it. The rosebuds were papery and brown and gave off the faintest of potpourri scents. Ire felt a cold draft on his back and got up to close the kitchen window, but it was already shut. He shrugged his shoulders.
Must be from that old cat flap.
And resumed his delve into the mysteries of his mother’s old biscuit box.

Beneath the corsage was a crumpled and faded photograph of a much younger Grace Ire. She was dressed in a conventional tutu and the photo held her poised in a ridiculous ballet pose.
She actually looks like someone you could fancy.
Ire turned his attention to the three letters on blue paper, addressed in a precise italic script. The handwriting on the envelopes was almost an exact copy of Ire’s own.
Weird, I never wrote to her. What could these be?

There was nothing else in the tin.

The envelopes had been carefully slit with a knife on the side rather than at the top. Ire squeezed the envelope so that it ballooned slightly. He held it aloft and let the lozenge of folded paper fall onto the table’s surface. It slipped out like a whisper and lay there with an air of expectancy. Ire’s fingers unfurled and smoothed out the leaves. Some words were smudged in spots across the page. Luckily the letter was written in ballpoint and most of it was decipherable.

He flipped the pages till he reached the end and there he read:

Always your loving Art

Ire’s impatience grew as he read and reread each letter. They were all from the same person.

Well, well mother. You’ve been keeping secrets now haven’t you? What a pile of slush.

Ire was nonplussed by the fact his boring mother had led any other life than the one he knew. Now it transpired she was some sort of slut. No real surprise there.
All women are sluts.
He had yet to meet one who wasn’t.

The second letter was full of more of the same, but the date was months after the other one.
So Mr Dr wasn’t so good at writing regularly then. Probably picked up a London tart and didn’t have anymore need for you mum. How the bloody hell did you land a doctor anyway? Couldn’t exactly have kept up a conversation with him could you. But then I suppose you didn’t need to do any talking for what he had in mind.

Well, fuck me, he actually sent the ticket. London tarts obviously not as good as our Northern girls. Wonder if she went to meet him?

The final letter answered that question.

Full of sentimental clap trap
. Ire tossed the pages across the table and they fluttered hither and thither. He didn’t like the way they fell in a disorderly heap and landed helter-skelter on the kitchen floor and surfaces. Standing, he retrieved them and began sorting and putting them back in date order. As he was replacing them in the envelopes he paid more attention to the name and return address on the back of the final envelope:

Mr Arthur Deed

Medical Halls of residence

King’s College London

That was the name on his birth certificate. Finally here was some inkling of who his real father was. Maybe it was time to look the old boy up.
Always good for sons and fathers to come together
. Alfie Ire had reminded Ire of that on a daily basis when his belt came together with any exposed bit he left on show as a boy.

Madie was suffering from self imposed agoraphobia. She felt she carried the plague.
I'm some sort of leper. I carry this disease around with me. Why don't I show any symptoms? Why are some people affected and not others? What is it? Why have I got it? Why is it me? Why is it me? I feel so... unclean.

Madie scrubbed at her skin in the shower. The sting of the astringent soap made her eyes water.
I need to be clean.

As she left the bathroom for the third time that day Madie was confronted by an exasperated Cara. "Madie, you've used up all the hot water again. For God's sake, surely one shower a day should be enough."

"I... I felt sweaty."

"Sweaty, are you crazy? This place is like a freezer. Are you eating properly? You're looking like a concentration camp victim."

Cara was trying to urge Madie to see a doctor, but her words were falling on deaf ears. Madie’s eyes were sunken and her already slim frame was taking on anorexic proportions. She now waited till either late at night or very early morning before she ventured out to the 24 hour store to get supplies. She had swapped to the late late shift and she avoided speaking to anyone except Cara and Moira at the shelter.

And wherever she went, wrapped in a yellow Wilkinson's carrier bag, she carried her diary which was now pregnant with a bundle of newspaper cuttings. She had taken to scouring the paper for any unexplained deaths.

Have I committed another murder? Does it matter that none of it was planned? I'm still responsible. It's still down to me. After I realised in London I should have done something. I should be locked away somewhere so that people can be safe.

On her way back from her predawn shopping expedition Madie noticed that the doors of St Luke's were open. The 6am service had just ended and the eastern European and elderly parishioners were making their way home. Madie scuttled into a corner of the imposing stonework to avoid making any physical contact with the worshipers. A gentle whiff of incense assailed her befuddled senses. She peered through the arched doorways and spied a dim, vaulted interior and the soft flicker of candlelight beckoned to her. Madie hesitated against the cold stone of the building and then sidled into the church. Her carrier bag rustled too loudly and she lifted it and clutched it to her chest to still the intrusive sound.

It was years since she’d been in this type of church. The last time was with her mum. After mum died she stopped going to church for a while until Allie and Luis persuaded her to join them at the Tabernacle. Even then her attendance was sporadic, more for the functions than a real sense of a belief in anything.

Feeling like an intruder she scurried from pillar to pillar, seeking the shadows. Madie scuttled around the edges of the inside of the church and was suddenly confronted by a row of aged oak confessionals.

Stylised rose carvings predominated in the wood and their entrances were covered in faded red velvet drapes. The structures emanated a quality of ancient sympathy. Looking at them she thought of how many tales of woe were suffused within the wooden panels and velvet fabric. As a penitent exited a cubicle the swish of curtain rail against curtain rings chimed a hymn of solemn forgiveness and understanding. The fabric touched the skin of her arm and felt like a caress. Shifting her shopping awkwardly Madie used the back of her hand to feel the old velvet. There was that caress again. Not quite as lovely as before, when it had come so unexpectedly. As she leaned against the confessional, tiredness washed over her. The church was still, pausing before it began the real work of the day.

On a sudden impulse Madie entered the confessional and drew the velvet curtain across. The booth’s shadowy confines hid her from the world. Here she did not have to fear she would cause someone’s death merely by accidental contact. She sighed heavily and drooped on to the chair. Madie looked down at the kneeling step. Someone who possibly pitied the knees of old penitents had made a long sausage of a pillow with remnants for the wooden ledge.
The chair's probably for people who can't even make it to their knees. Maybe I should kneel.
She let her fingers trail along the frayed edge of the cushion and began to shift position. The grill rattled as the priest slid the panel to one side.