Текст книги "Bolt-hole"

Автор книги: A. J. Oates

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

I was beginning to relax into my surroundings as most of the other drinkers lost interest in me.  But unnervingly, I kept catching the eye of one particularly character, sitting alone at the far end of the bar.  Probably in his early forties, he had lank and greasy collar-length brown hair that lay plastered against his forehead.  With his pale, gaunt features and several days’ stubble, he had an appearance not unlike a sewer rat, although it was probably doing a disservice to rodent-kind.  To my ongoing discomfort, each time I glanced up from my beer he’d be watching me before quickly turning away.  There was a certain familiarity about his distinctive features, but I couldn’t quite place him – although CrimeWatch on TV was a distinct possibility.  As I pondered his identity there was a vibration followed by the ringing tone of the mobile in my trouser pocket.  The screen indicated “Home” and my first thought was to hit the red button, but I answered anyway.  I subconsciously held my breath as I waited for her to speak, but to my surprise she sounded no different to normal – clearly guilt was not weighing heavy on her shoulders.  “Hi, just checking what time you’re coming home.  Where are you?  What’s that noise in the background?”

The alcohol was having an effect and I concentrated hard to avoid slurring my words. “I’m having a drink in The Oxford with a visiting professor, there’s a group of us.  I’ll be late home so don’t bother to wait up.  How are the boys?”

“Yeah, they’re fine, both in bed.  I’ll see you later.  Be good.”

I switched off my phone without responding and mulled over the irony of her last statement.  I didn’t feel like being good, and returned my attention to the serious business of drinking.

Glancing up from my pint, I was relieved to see that rat-features had moved from his lair at the end of the bar.  But as I took another gulp of beer there was a firm tap on my shoulder.  Turning cautiously, half-expecting a kiss with a broken bottle, I found myself face to face with him.  The proximity was uncomfortable, and enough to experience the foul breath emanating from him, a concoction of alcohol, tobacco and rotten teeth.  “You’re Julian Scott, aren’t you?”

I was momentarily stunned, and leaned back against the bar, “Yes … yes, that’s me.”  For a second I thought I must have left my university ID badge pinned to my shirt pocket, but then remembered it was on my lab coat at work – how the hell did he know me?

The man smiled broadly, bearing his darkly-stained teeth and revealing numerous gaps.  Clearly flossing was not a high priority.  “It’s me, Dave Musgrove, we went to school together.  You must remember me?”  I thought for a few seconds, saying the name over and over in my head before he continued: “We were in the same form class at Gleadless Valley Comprehensive.”

Willing myself to remember so as to alleviate the awkwardness, the light finally dawned. “Yes, yes, I remember.  You were friends with James Bosworth, weren’t you?”

 

Musgrove pulled up a stool next to me and sat down.  He put his empty pint glass on the bar and looked sheepishly at me. “I’d buy you a drink, mate, but unfortunately I’m a bit strapped for cash.”

“Erm, that’s okay, I’ll get you one. I was about to get myself one anyway,” I responded, beckoning over the barman, who seemed surprised at my choice of drinking partner and gave Musgrove a long, questioning glare as he pulled the pints.  For the next three rounds of drinks, all bought by me, we discussed old school days and the kids and teachers we remembered.  At first I’d only a dim recollection of my new drinking buddy, but as we drank and talked the memories returned.  I’d been to quite a sheltered junior school and I’d found the transition to big school a bit of a challenge, particularly when sharing a class with kids like Musgrove, who, even as an eleven-year-old, had a home-made tattoo on his arm.  As early as the first few weeks of secondary school Musgrove had cultivated a certain infamy and was often either disruptive or absent from class for one reason or another.  In fact Biology was the only class he attended with regularity, and that was mainly because we had an attractive young teacher, Miss Jones, who didn’t believe in the bra concept.

The time passed quickly as the drinks continued to flow, and I was feeling the effects profoundly, my cheeks burning and my words starting to slur.  Musgrove, always drinking slightly the quicker, would finish his pint and then immediately apologise for not being able to get the next round.  I soon realised that this was his cue for me to drink up and summon the barman.  I was unconcerned.  I had plenty of cash with me, and was grateful for a drinking partner; and, more importantly, I didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to be.

The conversation turned to what we’d done since we’d left school.  Musgrove looked uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose I got involved with a bad crowd and started doing bad things.”

I was unclear on this rather vague description, but he subsequently clarified matters. “I’m trying to get things together and, erm, I’m on a methadone programme.  I’ve been clean for a couple of months.”  Musgrove lit up a cigarette and laughed. “Can’t give up the cancer sticks though.”

Simultaneously we took long slugs of beer, unsure what to say, before Musgrove continued. “I’ve even got a job, first job in ten years – working across the road at the builders’ merchants, labouring, that sort of stuff.”  I nodded in encouragement. “I normally come here for a quick one after work, then head back to my flat.”  I was genuinely impressed by his attempts to get his life back on track.  “So what about you, Julian, what have you been up to?”

“Well, I stayed on at school, did A-levels, a degree and then a Ph.D, and now I’m a biochemist at the university.” I responded sheepishly, not wanting to belittle his achievements.

Musgrove looked impressed. “I’m a real fuck-wit compared to you, then, aren’t I.”

I smiled. “It sounds like you’re making a real go of it too though.”

We finished our drinks and I summoned the barman for refills.  Musgrove pointed to my wedding ring. “You’re married, then, got kids?”  I took a couple of photos of Helen and the boys from my wallet, one of a family holiday in Cornwall and a small passport photo of Helen.  Musgrove nodded. “I can’t believe our lives have gone in such different directions since school, I can’t believe you’ve got a Ph.D, you’ve done so much more than me.”

I didn’t respond.  At that moment my life didn’t feel like any great success – far from it.

There was a lull in the conversation for several minutes, as if we’d exhausted all common links for discussion.  Musgrove finally broke the silence. “If you don’t mind me asking, if your life is going so well what are you doing drinking alone in a place like this? A bit off the beaten track for you, isn’t it?”

Unsure what to say, I took a long swig of beer and used it for thinking time before responding. “I suppose I’ve been having a rough time of it, you might say.”  I paused for a sip of whiskey. “Do you want to hear something funny?” I was beginning to struggle to form coherent sentences, and increasingly had to concentrate on my pronunciation. “Do you want to hear something funny?” I repeated.  Musgrove nodded.  “Things are going so well for me that …” I paused to study the clock behind the bar before continuing: “… four hours ago I tried to kill myself by jumping in front of a cement lorry … but as you can see I made a bit of a balls-up of it.”  I started laughing uncontrollably in a huge release of emotion facilitated by the quantity of alcohol.

Musgrove stared back blankly, presumably unsure what to say, or perhaps he thought it was some joke that had gone way over his head.  He got off the high bar stool, almost tripping as he did. “I need a piss,” and headed for the gents.

With the sound of the bell for last orders, I ordered another round with a whiskey chaser.  It was my seventh pint and third whiskey in the last three hours, and as much as I’d drunk in a single session since my days as a student.  On an empty stomach I was amazed that I was still upright.

When Musgrove returned from the gents his mood seemed more serious. “Were you taking the piss when you said that thing about the cement truck?”

Before I had chance to answer, the gruff words of the barmen interrupted.  “Drink up now, and fuck off home.”  I looked around and was surprised to find that we were the last two drinkers in the pub.  We quickly finished up and stumbled out into the empty street.  The rain from earlier had stopped but the cold wind whipped down the narrow street as I rubbed my arms and stamped my feet to generate some heat.  Despite the cold, I was in no mood to go home. “Are there any late opening bars around here?”

Musgrove thought for a few seconds, “I don’t think there is ... If you want we can get the bus back to my flat, there’s a twenty-four hour garage round the corner, we can pick up some booze from there.”

Judging by Musgrove’s personal appearance I dreaded to think of the state of his flat, but in my self-destructive mood, continuing the drinking seemed an excellent idea. “Sounds good, but I can’t be doing with the bus, let’s get a taxi.”

At first we talked as we walked the half mile or so to the main road to pick up a taxi. But Musgrove was soon out of breath and increasingly struggled to hold a conversation.  He had an obvious limp, and with his scrawny body and gaunt face he could pass for someone a good twenty years older.

We arrived at the main road and quickly flagged down a passing taxi.  Within ten minutes we were outside the petrol station.  I headed to the cash point while Musgrove uncomfortably loitered over my shoulder as I entered my PIN and withdrew the money.  The main door of the petrol station was locked, and we performed our transaction, eight cans of bargain-basement lager and a cheap bottle of whiskey, through the small security window before heading to Musgrove’s flat.  On the way a group of youths leaning against the wall of the forecourt, clearly familiar with Musgrove, hurled abuse. “Junkie, junkie, who’s your boyfriend?”  We walked more quickly, Musgrove’s limp permitting, as they started to follow us down the road.  To my relief his flat was just fifty yards away and the group had already lost interest by the time we reached our destination.

As I’d suspected, the ground floor flat was certainly nothing special.  The front garden was wildly overgrown, contained a rusty tumble dryer, and generally set the tone for the rest of his abode.  In front of the main door was a full-length metal security gate with a substantial padlock before Yale and Chubb locks on the door itself.  Stepping inside, there was the immediate overpowering smell of stale cigarette smoke and damp carpet.  In the poorly lit entranceway I negotiated the piles of junk mail and free newspapers accumulating on the floor, and Musgrove led me through to the combined living room and kitchenette. The carpet had originally been some kind of red and black patterned affair but now, decades old, it was worn and heavily stained and covered in empty pizza boxes and miscellaneous other rubbish.  I took a seat on a decrepit low-backed armchair.  It was probably the cleanest of his soft furnishings, but even so the stuffing was leaking out of the numerous cigarette burn holes and the springs dug uncomfortably into my back.  He caught me looking round with presumably a look of something close to disgust, and he appeared embarrassed. “Sorry about the mess.  I wasn’t expecting company.”  No kidding, I thought.

After just a minute or so in his flat I felt myself sobering up and didn’t like the sensation.  I opened a can of lager and took a large gulp, knowing that anaesthesia was probably the best way to survive Musgrove’s company and residence.  He sat opposite me on a similarly decrepit settee, and lit a cigarette before taking a long, thoughtful drag.  He looked at me inquisitively and, with his nose wrinkled, he looked more like a sewer-rat than ever. “What was that about the cement lorry again?”

I took a large swig of the harsh whiskey and immediately regretted it.  For a second I thought it wasn’t going to stay down, but with a few deep breaths the gag reflex abated.  After composing myself and then rinsing my mouth with lager, I responded. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Musgrove gestured for the whiskey bottle. “Try me.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin.  I suspected that to an outsider many of my woes would appear trivial, but to my surprise, talking to a stranger and someone I probably – hopefully – wouldn’t see again, was easier than I would have imagined.  “I suppose I’d just had enough of everything, a mid-life crisis you might call it, given that I’m still only thirty-seven.  I’ve been having a few setbacks at work and things haven’t been going well with Helen, my wife.” I looked at Musgrove, half expecting him to have fallen asleep, but he was sitting forward in his chair appearing genuinely interested.  I continued to struggle to find words as the whiskey took effect. “Well, things came to a head today.  This afternoon I had a meeting with my boss.  He told me I that could have a shit technician’s job but they wouldn’t renew my contract as a laboratory head unless I got some research grants … After all I’ve done for them – those bastards, they treat me like this.”  I pictured myself in Bob’s office earlier in the day, and with the wound still red raw I took several gulps of whiskey before continuing: “But do you know what … do you know what … my day got that little bit fucking worse.  I made an idiot of myself in front of him, pretty much had a mental breakdown, and then I went for a walk to clear my head and who should I bump into but my dear little wife going into some sleazy bed and breakfast with a bloke she used to work with.”

Musgrove sat upright in his chair, clearly surprised by the development.  “So you reckon there’s something going on between them?”

I laughed ironically. “He was virtually ripping her clothes off in the street, and she wasn’t exactly complaining.”

There was silence for a few seconds. “The funny thing is ... I thought something had been going on for a while.  I’d phone her when she said she’d be at home or at a friend’s, and she’d not be there and then she’d give some stupid excuse, and then she’d get text messages at all times of the day and night.  Sometimes, you know … no, pretty much all the time, I wish I’d never met her.  You know, sometimes I wish that bitch was dead.  I’d get the house, a nice inheritance and have the kids to myself.”  I was shocked by the ferocity of my outburst and the sudden release of pent-up frustration and anger.  But Musgrove appeared unfazed and just nodded in agreement.

For several minutes we sat in silence passing the whiskey back and forth.  The room was beginning to spin, perhaps only the intensity of my anger providing a focus to my thinking and keeping me awake.  Musgrove eventually broke the silence. “I could help you out if you like … I’ll take care of it … if you like.”  He said it cautiously and quietly, as if testing the water.

I was confused. “What do you mean take care of it?” I mumbled.  He took a long drag on his cigarette, his scrawny fingers and long nails stained with nicotine.  “I’ll take care of your wife … I’ll kill her for you … You said you wished she was dead ... I could even make it look like an accident, it’ll solve all your problems.”

I took another gulp of whiskey.  My thoughts were running on slow time as my consciousness began to ebb.  “What do you mean?” I said, slurring noticeably as I struggled to get the words out.

Musgrove responded matter-of-factly and seemingly growing in confidence. “I mean for a small fee, let’s say £5,000, I’ll kill your wife and you get rid of her, you get to keep the money and your kids – the perfect solution.”

I stared blankly back at him, still unsure whether he was being serious.  I drained the last half inch of whiskey in a single gulp and the bottle slipped through my fingers and hit the floor.  I was past caring.  After everything I’d been through in the last few months as well as that afternoon, I just didn’t give a shit anymore.  I looked into his cold empty eyes and I said the words – the last thing that I remembered from the evening: “Go for it,” as my consciousness finally deserted me.

At the time, of course, little did I realise that in those three words I’d set in place an uncontrollable chain of events that I would bitterly regret for the remainder of what would ultimately prove to be the final year of my life.

–

I woke a few hours later slumped in the armchair as brilliant shafts of sunlight streamed through the rips in the curtains and illuminated the dust-filled air.  As I lifted my chin off my chest, there was a burning ache in my neck from the unnatural sleeping position, but this discomfort was immediately surpassed by the intense waves of nausea that followed.  I rested my forehead on the arm of the chair and closed my eyes, but the nausea persisted.  Then the smell hit me, and looking down at my crotch and the large damp patch, I realised I’d pissed myself.

I lifted my head again and scanned the room, but didn’t immediately recognise my surroundings.  It took several seconds before fragments of memory fell into place and my thoughts turned to Musgrove, but he was gone and I was alone in the small flat.  I felt in my pockets for my house keys, mobile and wallet, but they were all missing.  I quickly scanned around the floor and found my wallet, partially obscured by an old pizza box.  My university ID and organ donor card were next to it, but the debit card I’d used at the petrol station cash point, along with the £300 withdrawal, were missing.

You bastard, Musgrove, I hissed, but I suppose I was more angry with myself for being so stupid and going back to his flat in the first place.  I checked for my watch, a present from my parents, thankfully still on my wrist and indicating 8:30 a.m.  I slowly got to my feet with the room spinning and a cold sweat forming on my brow.  As soon as I was fully upright the retching started, producing yellow frothy vomit that left a sour taste in my mouth and only added to my nausea.

The air in the dingy cramped flat was oppressive and I desperately needed to get out.  I wiped the vomit from my chin using the tatty curtains, and then made my way to the front door.  After a few seconds of concentration I managed to open the Yale lock and step out into the street.  At first the crisp cold air had a sobering and refreshing effect, but as I walked down the driveway the spinning and nausea quickly returned.  Turning into the road, I tucked in my beer– and vomit-stained shirt, a half-hearted attempt to look vaguely presentable, and then fumbled through my pockets, emptying the contents into my cupped hand.  £2.23, not enough for a taxi but just enough for the bus fare home – that’s if I could first make it to the city centre bus terminus.  I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of walking the four miles, but what choice did I have; given the state I was in I couldn’t exactly ask Helen to come and get me.

As I walked, my unsteadiness and dishevelled appearance attracted the attention of some of the early-morning shoppers.  Many moved to the opposite side of the pavement to avoid me, but one sweet old lady, shuffling along in carpet slippers and two walking sticks, appeared concerned, and to my surprise asked me if I needed any help.  I would have laughed at the irony if I hadn’t felt so god-awful.

After ninety minutes of walking, and still feeling like death warmed up, I finally reached the bus station.  The bus was waiting and I climbed aboard hoping that I wouldn’t recognise anybody.  But it wasn’t to be, as I immediately spotted the teaching assistant from William’s reception class sitting in the front seat.  It was obvious that she recognised me, her face bearing shock and then something close to disgust as she quickly looked away.  I could almost read her thoughts: “Those poor boys with a drunk for a father.”

I reached home at 10:30 a.m., and without my house keys I was relieved to see the reflection of the TV through the living room window: Helen was at home to let me in.  She opened the door with Oliver asleep in her arms, and although initially stunned by my dishevelled appearance, her disposition soon turned to anger. “Julian, where the hell have you been?  I’ve been worried sick.  Why didn’t you answer your mobile? ... I was about to phone the police.”

The last thing I needed was a lecture, and I brushed past her. “Sorry.  Sorry.  I just need to lie down.”  I headed upstairs to the spare bedroom, removed my shoes and filthy clothes and crawled into bed, pulling the sweet-smelling, freshly laundered sheets over my head.  As I offered a silent prayer of thanks that I’d made it home, I was totally oblivious of the horrific series of events I’d set in motion.