Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense (17 page)

And yet they'd all seemed impressed by her life, not envious, but respectful, as if she and Kevin were somehow their ambassadors in a more sophisticated world.

She'd met Tony Platt in the supermarket. Tony Platt, who she'd gone out with for nearly a year and even considered marrying. And there he was, looking just the same except balding, and with three kids. Three bouncing kids with cheerful, squabbling Lancastrian voices and not an inhibition between them.

Tony had been pleased to see her. Friendly and slow, as he'd always been. “Heard you were living down in the Smoke. Sorry we lost touch. You married Kevin Smith, didn't you?”

And he'd said she was looking grand, and she knew it wasn't true. She knew that strain reflected itself immediately in her face, pulling it down, etching deep lines in her skin. And make-up no longer seemed to smooth out the lines, but rather to highlight them. Still, if she could get some sleep, maybe she'd start to feel better. Yes, when she got home she'd get some sleep. Kevin had rung through each day and assured her that everything was all right.

The cars around her started to lose their outlines again. Must concentrate. Keep going. Only another seventy miles.

A car overtook her, fast, and then cut in in front of her. Too close. Far too close. She had to brake.

She focused on the car.

It was a silver-grey Volkswagen Golf.

I see, trying to get me now, she thought. Right, I'll show them.

She flattened her foot on the accelerator. They wouldn't get away with trying to frighten her.

Her car moved closer and closer to the large-windowed back of the Golf. It speeded up, but it couldn't get away from her. She was gaining.

Suddenly the Golf, pressed for space, swung out to overtake a lorry in front. Avril snatched her steering wheel to the right too.

There was a furious hooting and a scream of brakes as the Range Rover overtaking her had to slam on everything to avoid collision.

There was no collision. Avril swung back to the left and her car slowed down with a crunch on the hard shoulder. As she rubbed her swimming eyes, she could hear the voice of the Range Rover's driver ringing round her head. “You bloody fool! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

The car was still parked outside when she got back to the house. The silver-grey Volkswagen Golf.

Its number-plate was different from the one on the motorway, but she wasn't necessarily fooled by that. She still felt the bonnet to see if the engine was warm and listened for the tick of contracting metal. But there was nothing. It seemed that the car had not been used recently.

Inside the house was absolutely quiet. It was nearly half-past six. The boys should be back from school. She swayed with exhaustion as she stood in the hall.

No, must resist the temptation to go to bed. Must find where the boys were. Probably with Kevin. Perhaps he'd left work early to fetch them from school. Even Andersen Small must recognize emergencies.

Must be with Kevin. Nowhere else they could be. Unless they were with that Mrs Bentley. Anyway, better ring her to thank her for taking them to school.

“Oh, Mrs Hooson-Smith, I must say I'm very relieved you've rung. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to look after your sons for the rest of my life.”

“I'm so sorry. I thought you wouldn't mind just taking them to and from school. My mother's been ill and—”

“No, I didn't mind that at all, but I must confess having them to stay for the past three days has been a bit of a strain.”

“I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”

“Your husband had to go away on business.”

“Oh no.”

“So on Tuesday afternoon I was faced with the alternatives of putting them up or turning them out on to the streets. I must say, I do regard it as something of an imposition. It's not as if they're even special friends of Nigel.”

“I had no idea. I'm so grateful. I do hope they behaved themselves.”

“To an extent. Of course, people have different standards. About a lot of things.”

“Oh dear. Did my husband warn you about James's bed wetting?”

“No, he didn't.”

It was quarter past eight. The boys were finally in bed, though not asleep. Still arguing fiercely. They were upset and confused, and, as usual, expressed their confusion by fighting.

Avril fell on to her bed without taking any of her clothes off. Just sleep, sleep.

The phone rang. She answered it blearily.

“It's Philip Wilkinson. Is Kevin there?”

“No, he's away on business. I don't know when he'll be back.”

“He's not away on business. I saw him in the office this morning. Then he went off after lunch.”

“Then I've no idea where he is. All I know is that he's been away on business for the last three days.”

“He hasn't.”

“What?”

“He's been in the office for the last few days. On and off. A bit distracted, but he's been there.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sorry, we've got our wires crossed somehow. As I say, I have no idea where he is. I'm absolutely shagged out and I'm going to sleep.”

She put the phone down and lay back on the bed. But, in spite of her exhaustion, sleep didn't come. Her mind had started working.

Kevin came back about half-past eleven. She heard the front door, then his footsteps up the stairs. But he didn't come straight into the bedroom as usual. She heard him going into the bathroom, where he seemed to be going through some fairly extensive washing and teeth-cleaning.

Eventually he came into the bedroom. “Oh, I thought you'd be asleep.”

“As you see, I'm not.”

“No. How's your Mum?”

“Better.”

“Good.” He reached for his pyjamas. “Oh, I'm tired out.”

“Kevin, what do you mean by leaving the boys with Mrs Bentley?”

“I had to do something. I was called away on business.”

“You weren't.”

“What do you mean?”

“That smoothie Philip Wilkinson rang to speak to you. In the course of conversation, he revealed that you have not been away on business for the past three days.”

“Ah.” Kevin put his pyjamas down again. Slowly he started to put his clothes back on. As he did so, he spoke. Flatly, without emotion. “Right, in that case I'd better tell you. You'd have to know soon, anyway. The fact is, I have fallen in love with someone else.”

“What, you mean another woman?”

“Yes. I have spent most of the past week with her.”

“Most of the past week? The shooting weekend . . .”

“There was no shooting weekend.”

“But how could you? What about me?”

“I don't think there's much left between us now, Avril.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name's Davina Entick. She works at Andersen Small.”

Avril started laughing. “Oh God, Kevin, you're predictable. Clawing your grubby way up the social ladder. First you got the voice, then you got the job and the house. Then you looked around and you thought, what haven't I got? The right woman. I need a matching woman to make a set with my shotgun and my wine-rack and all my other phony status-symbols. So you start sniffing round some little feather-headed debutante.

“Well, let me tell you, Kevin Smith, it won't work. Okay, maybe you managed to get into bed with her. A man can usually manage that if he's sufficiently determined, and you've never lacked determination, Kevin Smith. But that's all you'll get out of her. You can't screw your way into the upper classes. You've always been as common as dirt, Kevin Smith. And about as wholesome.”

He knotted his silk tie. “I didn't expect you to understand. I'm sure you've forgotten what love feels like.”

“If I have, it's only because I've been living with you for the past fourteen years.”

“I'm going now.”

“Oh, back to the little lovenest in Mayfair?”

“Fulham, actually.”

“Oh, Fulham—what a let-down. Couldn't you find a nice upper-class dolly-bird with the right address? Never mind, maybe you can trade them in at Harrods. Fix yourself up with a nice shop-soiled Duke's daughter, how about that?”

Kevin still spoke quietly. “I'm leaving, Avril. I won't come back, except to pick up my things.”

“Oh yes, pick up your things.” She rose from the bed and went across to the chest of drawers. “Why not take your things with you now? I'm sure Devonia won't want to soil her pretty little hands with washing sweaty shirts and horrid stained Y-fronts, will she?” As she spoke, she opened the drawers and started throwing clothes at Kevin. “Here, have your things. Have your clean shirts, and your socks, and your Y-fronts, and your vests, and your handkerchiefs and your bloody Aran sweaters and . . .”

Quite suddenly, she collapsed on the floor crying.

Kevin, who had stood still while all his clothes were flung at him, looked down at her contemptuously. “And you wonder why I'm leaving you.”

She heard the car start. But when she looked out of the window, it was out of sight. All she could see, through the distorting film of her eyes, parked exactly outside the house, was the silver-grey Volkswagen Golf.

“Mummy, why have you drawn the curtains?”

“It's nearly night-time, James.”

“But it's not dark. It's summer.”

“Look, if I want to draw the curtains in my own house, I will bloody well draw them.”

“But you must have a reason.”

Oh yes, Avril had a reason. But not one she could tell. You can't tell your six-year-old son that you've drawn the front curtains because you can't bear another second looking at the car parked outside your house. You can't tell anyone that sort of thing. It doesn't make sense.

So, as usual, answer by going on to the attack. “Anyway, it's time you were in bed. Go on, upstairs.”

“Am I going to have a bath?”

“No, you can have one tomorrow night.”

“You said that last night.”

“Look, I have not got the energy to give you a bath tonight. Now
GO UPSTAIRS
!”

“Can't I wait till Christopher comes home?”

“No. You go to bed.” Avril didn't want to think where her ten-year-old son was. Mrs Bentley, who had very grudgingly picked up James from school, had brought back some message about Christopher's being off with some friends and making his own way home on the bus. Avril knew she should be worried about him, but her mind was so full of other anxieties that that problem would have to join the queue and be dealt with when its time came.

A new thought came into her head. A new thought, calming like a sedative injection. Yes, of course, that was the answer. She'd just have to go out and check. Then it would be easy. Just get James into bed and she could go. He'd be all right for a few minutes.

“Go on, James, upstairs, or I'll get really cross.”

Her younger son looked stubborn and petulant, just like his father when he didn't get his own way. With an appalling shock, Avril realized that she could never be free of Kevin. She could remove his belongings, fumigate the house of his influence, even move somewhere else, but the boys would always be with her. Two little facsimiles of their father, two little memento moris.

“I need some clean pyjamas,” objected James. “I haven't got any clean pyjamas in my drawer, because you haven't done any washing.”

Now she had no control over her anger. “And you know why you need clean pyjamas every night, don't you? Because you wet your bloody bed like a six-month-old baby!”

She knew she shouldn't have said it. She knew all the child psychology books said shouting at them only made the problem worse. And, when she saw James's face disintegrate into tears, she knew how much she had hurt him. She was his defender. His father had told him off about it, but she was always the one who intervened, made light of it, said it'd soon be all right. And now she had turned against him.

At least it got him out of the room. He did go upstairs. Maybe, when all this was over, she'd have time to rebuild her relationship with her children. Now she was just too tired. It was the Thursday. Kevin had gone the previous Friday. Nearly a week ago. And still she had hardly slept at all. She lay back on the sofa. Strangely, she felt relaxed. Maybe now sleep would come.

But no, of course. Her good thought. Yes, her good peace-bringing thought. Yes, she must do that.

She stood up. The whole room seemed to sway insubstantially around her.

She went into the hall, then out of the front door. She averted her eyes from the thing parked in front of the house and set off briskly up the road.

A five-minute walk brought her to her objective. It was where she had remembered it would be, in the middle of the council estate.

It was an old Citroën DS. The tyres were flat and the back window smashed. Aerosols had passed comment on its bodywork.

But what she was looking for was affixed to the windscreen. It was a notice from the Council, saying that the car was dangerous rubbish and would have to be moved. She noted down the details of the department responsible.

Back outside the house, she forced herself to look at the car. It hadn't moved. It was in exactly the same position. Resin from a tree above it had dropped on to the bodywork and dust had stuck to this, dulling the silver-grey sheen.

But it was still a new car. This year's model. Some residual logic in her mind told her that no Council was going to come and tow this away as dangerous rubbish.

For a moment she wanted to cry. But then everything became clear.

She wondered why she hadn't seen it earlier. Yes, of course. The car had arrived on the supposed shooting weekend. The smart new car had arrived just at the time Kevin had gone off with his smart new girlfriend. At last she understood why she felt threatened by it.

She was so absorbed that she didn't hear the police car draw up behind her. It was only when the officer who got out of it spoke to her directly that she came back to life.