Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 48

February 2020, Edinburgh

‘What do you take in your tea, Mrs Waters?’

‘Ms Waters. Just black thanks, and weak. Wave the teabag over it.’ The receptionist, a wilted man of around fifty with a melancholy chin and a an olive green waistcoat that suckered in around his navel region, nodded and disappeared through the glass doors into the hall.

‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Janet asked Jeremy.

Jeremy shook his head. ‘I’ve been here before. Arthur makes dreadful tea.’ He flicked at a thread on his tie, smoothed the creases down on his trousers, picked up a magazine that had something to do with home security on the front cover, and sat down on the chair opposite Janet.

Janet waved a hand at the room. She said ‘I didn’t expect something so…’ He interrupted her.

‘Smart? Professional?’ Janet didn’t like his tone.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said, ‘since I’ve had anything to do with private detectives. Thirty years, maybe more. They were all a bunch of crooks then. Vietnam vets. Or police that couldn’t stick the uniform.’ Why was she telling Jeremy this? To impress him? To show him she wasn’t just a puddly old woman with eccentric tastes in pets? They sat in silence until Arthur returned, the tray with its white cup and saucer and a single plastic-wrapped shortbread on a matching plate shaking in his hands.

‘She’s just finishing a call,’ he said to them, ‘Dr Connolly-Smythe I mean, and then I’ll take you through.’

A doctor? Jeremy hadn’t said anything about her having a doctorate. Janet’s hands moistened. Heat flashed through her cheeks. She laid her palms flat on her lap and took two deep breaths. Doctor of what? Forensics? Investigations? Biology? She looked across to Jeremy. He was leafing through the magazine, pausing at the pages with the bigger pictures. She shouldn’t have come. This detective woman would work it out. She’d know as soon as she saw her. See it behind her eyes. The peccant wrinkles around her lips. Why was she here? Risking everything over a ridiculous cloud. She took a sip of tea, burnt her upper lip, and rattled the cup back onto the saucer.

‘OK, Lisa’s ready now, let’s go through.’ They followed Arthur down a wide bright corridor lined with large succulent plants and a series of closed doors with burnished copper name plates. Arthur tapped at the last door on the right, listened for a moment, then opened up. ‘Mrs Waters and Mr Hartridge,’ he said, ushering them in. ‘The ones with the missing cloud.’

The woman that walked out from behind the desk to greet them was short and neat, in a black suit with loose wide legs and a narrow boxy jacket that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a ship. Her shoes, impossible to ignore, were patent black gloss, with thick crepe soles and cherry red laces. Janet stared at the shoes as they came towards her and stopped just in front of her own.

‘Ms Waters,’ she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’ She reached out to grasp Janet’s hand. The detective’s hand was cool, and larger than Janet had expected. ‘Do take a seat,’ she said to them both, ‘and we’ll start from the beginning.’

Janet sat down beside Jeremy. Let Jeremy do the preamble while she studied the other woman. There was something odd about her, something unnervingly familiar. Her squared off chin. Her ears that angled out just too far to be attractive. Had she been on television? The woman was speaking to Janet now.

‘How about in your own words, Ms Waters,’ the detective said, with the lightest of an Antipodean twang.

‘Yes, of course,’ Janet said. ‘Cyril. But first, your accent? I was just wondering…? The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I was born in Australia. Been trying to get rid of the accent ever since.’ She flicked open her laptop. ‘You sound a bit similar yourself. Did you live in Oz, too?

It was the way she said Oz. A faint Australian drawl with a stronger Scottish burr. Janet’s vision blurred. It couldn’t be. He’d never mentioned children. Had he lied? She stared at the detective’s skin. Tried to estimate her age. It was possible. Yes. And the name. That double-barrelled name. Why hadn’t she spotted that? Worked it out before they came. All it would have taken was a quick search on the Internet.

‘Are you alright, Ms Waters?’ Doctor Connolly-Smythe was looking at Janet without a hint of recognition. But Janet knew. She was certain. The detective was the Inspector’s daughter.

To be continued.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 47

1966, Sydney

If Janet had written a diary we would know more of what she’d felt about the weeks following her first dinner date with Inspector Colin Connolly. But Janet was coy about writing things down.

There’d been a diary once. A present from her Pop George for Christmas just before she turned twelve. Ruby red leather with a pink satin ribbon to slide between the pages (or across her lips when she was struggling for a word). The paper was butter thick, and there was a whole page to fill up for each day of the year.  But any girl with two younger brothers knows the dangers of journal writing.

One drab Saturday afternoon in late April, Philip had found the diary in a shoe box under Janet’s bed. Roaring in triumph, he’d run out into the garden where Edward was playing with several other boys from their street. The diary was seized with glee, tossed from one grubby pair of hands to the other, until Peter, the oldest at thirteen, had climbed onto the shed roof, stood with the diary held aloft, and read out several passages to what had quickly become a shrieking mocking mob. 

Janet, who’d been helping her mother with the dishes when Philip had run past them with the diary, had thrown her tea towel at the fridge, and screamed at her mother to get it back. Bernadette, for reasons that she didn’t explain to her daughter, had carried on with the dishes. Janet, with no one else to turn to for help, fled the kitchen, slammed the door, and threw herself face down onto her bed, sobbing. Her father had retrieved the diary that evening, attempted to wipe it clean, and had taken it into Janet, who was still fretting in her room. But it was too late. Janet’s secret adoration of Mr Bennett, her English teacher, was public, and Philip would continue to bait her about it for months.

So Janet didn’t write down her feelings about the Inspector, nor did she have anyone to share them with. She had yet to start her new job, she was wary of the neighbours, and the only people outside the family that came into the house were Edward’s friends.

We could, however, get a sense of her feelings from the small wooden box she kept in the locked drawer of her dressing table. Not a written diary this time, but information of a personal nature nonetheless. There were receipts for green eye shadow, tangerine lipstick, black kohl eye liner. There were swatches of parakeet-coloured fabrics from the haberdashery store down town. There were pictures torn from her father’s newspapers – Jean Shrimpton with her big hair and her sweltry lips and her fervid eyes. And, neatly folded under all of these, the well-thumbed Cosmopolitan articles: The Pill of Liberation. Sex Without Guilt. Six Positions With YOU In Control.

Nothing was found in the wooden box on how to cover up a murder.

To be continued.

Categories
poetry

The Fate of the Telegraph Operator

Tousled brambles in a plover grey summer.

Pick squish suck. Pick squish suck.

Learning longhand in a buttoned-down scowl.

Squiggle line squiggle. Scrawl scratch scrawl.

The big hand dithering on the station master’s clock.

Tock tears tick. Tick tears tock.

There’s not much to Me. E for Ernest. Just a dot.

Dot Dot Dot

Tapping out a sea shanty on the ship’s bucking deck.

Heel toe heel. Kick skip kick.

The blast and the skew and the swamp and the sink

· · · — — — · · ·

Categories
75 words Flash fiction

Civvy

Nick is behind the rampart when he hears the hoik of spit hit sand.

Christ.

They tell him they’ve killed them all.

You go, Pussy, they say, stabbing at his armband. We’re resting. Sick to death of your shots and their shots.

His gut bucks. His mouth biles.

They guffaw.

He lifts his gun.

Inches around the corner.

The camel is alone, tied to the gate with a shoestring, its green slobbers pockmarking the sand.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 46

February, 2020. Edinburgh

How do you get rid of a ferret? Ferret, polecat, what’s the merit of a ferret? Especially a ferret that has moved in of its own accord, has no manners, and has taken to rubbing its backside on the treasured purple and gold velvet cushion that Janet had picked up on a Syrian road trip back in the 90s.

Would a ferret make a good wig? Were there even wig makers in Edinburgh? And would they take a live ferret? Maybe they’d insist on it being dead. Like taxidermists. You wouldn’t take a live animal to be stuffed would you? Drowning it would be easier than ringing its neck. She could pop it into a pillow case and do it in the bath. But how long would she have to hold it down for? And where would she put the body? She couldn’t just throw it into the wheelie bins in the street. It would be a health risk for sure. No, she was being daft. She couldn’t kill it. She didn’t have the gumption for that sort of thing. Not any more.

Janet took the half empty tin of cat food from the fridge and emptied the remains of it into an old saucer, gagging on the smell. She put the saucer down on the floor. The ferret shot out from wherever it had been guddling, slid across the wooden floorboards in the hall, looked up at Janet with what might have been a smirk, and settled down to eat.

The ferret wig thing was a bad idea. Its fur was too short. And then there was the smell. No matter how many times she lathered the ferret in the bath she couldn’t get rid of its stink. She was starting to wonder whether the bath made it even worse. And the carry on as she tried to dry it. All the keening and squealing and wriggling and nipping. You’d think she was murdering it. She’d had to explain to the neighbour’s children when they’d tapped on her door, their eyes all pink and teared up, that it was simply the ferret’s bath time and they were welcome to take over the task any time they liked, just say the word. Oh, and here’s an idea, if they’d like to keep the ferret they only had to ask.

Katherine did need a wig, though. Ridiculous to think she could go undercover without one. That was for Netflix, not Edinburgh’s Old Town. Janet had worn a wig herself for a few months after all that furore over Edward. She’d rather enjoyed the subterfuge. The blond bob had suited her. Especially with the sunglasses. She’d turned heads. Even got the odd wolf whistle. She’d walked from the hip instead of the knee. Lengthened her stride. Bought a new handbag that swung from her arm instead of her shoulder. Borrowed some orange corduroy wedges to match. She’d even tried smoking, just a cigarillo or two on Saturday evenings. She’d never inhaled, but she’d perfected the pout and the deft heft of it between her two fingers.

Where do you buy a wig these days? And what about the quality? This wasn’t Janet’s business. It was Katherine’s wig, not hers. But Janet had to know the how. It was her cloud. Her Cyril. Her rescue mission. It had been different in the 70s. Her wig didn’t need to look that good. Hadn’t needed to be fool proof. There’d been no CCTV, no social media, no camera phones, no busybodies wandering around capturing your every move.

This time the wig would have to look natural. More than natural. It would have to have character. Depth. A history. Katherine would no longer be Katherine. She’d be a gangster (or whatever they called themselves). And the wig couldn’t make her look prettier. That wouldn’t be right. Or fair. Not if it was being paid for out of the Contrails budget. The wig was for the return of Cyril. Nothing more and nothing less.

Janet looked down at the ferret. It had finished the cat food and was lying on its back at her feet. She bent down and tickled its belly. It curled up its toes and dooked, clucking like a hen that’s just laid an egg. How could she have thought of killing it? She would ask the neighbour’s kids to name it. Why did she care about the Syrian cushion anyway? The trip had been a disaster. And the woman that had made it was probably dead.

To be continued.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 45

1966, Sydney.

A Greek restaurant on a Saturday night in downtown Sydney. Two tables on the small patio out the back of the restaurant. The patio is dim, lit only by a weak bare bulb mounted on the wooden wall of the restaurant, and a candle in a bottle on each table. The patio is hemmed by high walls, recently white-washed. The paint smells of fresh chalky concrete. One wall is adorned with tumbling plants, the others with blue and white ceramic plates. One table is empty. A couple occupies the other table.

She is in a tight green dress, the hemline well above her knees. Her skin is not yet tanned. Freckles dot about her bare arms. Her hands flutter around her face. Her eyelashes and her lips have been thickened for the occasion. She is leaning back on her wooden chair. Every few minutes the weeping cactus plant on the shelf behind her head tangles in her hair and she pulls away, laughing. She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. She’s not sure what the right thing is. She is waiting.

He is in a blue-checked short-sleeved shirt. His trousers are not worth describing. He may be wearing sandals. If he is, it will feel more agreeable. His dabs at his brow with a cotton handkerchief are rhythmic and methodical. His face is pink, a malady brought on by the heat and the alcohol. It’s difficult to hide a pink face. He looks like he’s trying.

His glass is nearly empty, hers is almost full. The thick pine scent of the retsina is sticky sweet. It reminds her of treading barefoot through the forests back in Scotland. The pale brown spindles jabbing at her toes.

A small black (hand glazed?) bowl swanks large green glistering olives. The bowl’s white partner is empty. The man gestures to the bowl. For pips, he says. It’s not easy to eat an unpipped olive in a decorous manner. The woman, trying olives for the first time, takes her cue from him. She punctures the soft flesh of the fruit with a wooden cocktail stick. Pops it into her mouth fast before the olive drops off the end. Chews the pulp around the stone. Holds the stone in her mouth for longer than is comfortable. Spits it into a cupped hand and drops it into the white bowl. She waves away his signal for her to eat another.

Is there anything you don’t eat, he asks her, running a finger down the menu. She shakes her head. She is too shy to say. He knows the chef, he says. Anatoli. He’ll cook us the best of the best. The waiter, bursting through the plastic string door curtain with a smiling flourish, brings them a small tray of warm pita breads and a plate of dolmades. They look like babies. A row of babies tucked in tight in viridian swaddling. Stuffed with grape leaves, he says to her. They’re divine.

He picks one up with his fingers. Come here, he says. And open your mouth. She hesitates. She is not sure about the leaves. Come on, he says. She leans forward. He twists the dolmade into two pieces. She closes her eyes. The mixture of leaf and rice is soft, sensuous on her tongue. Delicious, she says. He wipes a line of brine from under her lip with a finger. She can’t believe she said delicious. What a ridiculous word. He puts the other half in his mouth and chews. Another, he asks. She nods. Of course, she says.

The waiter returns with his note pad. Scrawls the order down with a chewed down pen. The woman understands none of it. She trusts the man to do the right thing. The waiter leaves and the man calls after him. Georgios, could we have some music? Greek music for the princess here. He called her princess. She blushes. The music starts a minute later. (If you’re reading this aloud, stop and find a version of Zorba on Youtube. Crank up the volume as the tempo increases. Tap your foot. Click your fingers..That smile you have? That’s the woman’s smile, too.)

I love it, she says. I knew you would, he replies. She dances her fingers on the table. He reaches across and touches her hand. It’s nice, he says, being with you. She doesn’t reply. She looks down at her plate. She grins. He likes her. He really likes her. It’s been hard, you know, he says, these last couple of years in Oz. Took me ages to fit in. But now you’re here. And it’s home from home. He dabs at his brow.

The waiter bursts through the door curtain with a tray. A long red strand of plastic wraps around his neck. He flicks it the way he always flicks it. He’s a flicking expert. Madam, he says, kolokythokeftedes, compliments of the chef. Anatoli’s special. He puts the plate of courgette balls down on the table. Eat those and I’ll be back with the moussaka and the souvlaki. Aren’t you lucky, the man says. He’s never done that for me. The woman blushes. This, she is sure, is the happiest night of her life.

To be continued.

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 44

February 2020, Edinburgh

Katherine sent the plan to them a couple of hours after the meeting. It was in Excel. Janet didn’t do Excel. Not because she didn’t understand computers. Of course she did. She just did words better than numbers. Why put words in cells when you could put them on a page? She scrolled through the columns, sighing and tutting.

Cyril. (There’s no column for Cyril. Why hasn’t he got a column. Have they all forgotten what this is about? Katherine will have to add him in. Straight away. Note to self to tell her..)

Budget. £15,000 operating budget. All receipts to go to Bessie. Bessie will refund within 24 hours. (Why is Bessie insisting on paying all that money. Where did she get it? Patronising. Still, a PI expensive. If they want to pay up to them. B feeling guilty?)

Communications. WhatsApp. Everyone to change email passwords regularly. No talking to the Press. (For God’s sake, who’s going to hack my email? It’s a cloud not the bloody First Minister. I’ll forget the new password a minute after I’ve changed it. Should have argued about the press at the meeting. Be better to have press interest. Flush them out. Note to self – bring that up at next meeting.)

Katherine. Prepare and keep project plan up to date (DONE). (Not as organised as she wants us to think – found her note on the table after she left – can’t even draw a cloud!)

Katherine. Set up new profile on social media for undercover. (Can’t wait to see the pictures and the wig. She has to wear a wig. Could I choose the wig? Can’t look too pretty. Threat to Amy. Has she thought that through? But attractive enough for Dan? Hope she doesn’t irritate Amy. Could ruin the whole thing.)

Jeremy. All decisions to go through him. He’ll respond within six hours. (Easier to keep the peace and just let him think he’s the boss. and anyway we need him. Wish Katherine wouldn’t goad him. How did Bessie bring up such a chauvinist pig? She’s supposed to be a feminist.)

Jeremy. Will hire investigator by end of week. (At least I got him to get a women. Hope she gets on with Katherine. She’s bossy. Might think it’s competition. Exciting, a private investigator.. Can’t wait to meet her. Hope she doesn’t investigate me. Have to prevent..)

Bessie. To put together a file on ARPL. Everything in public domain. (Why Bessie – isn’t a researcher? Is J trying to keep her away from the important stuff?)

Janet. To write a full brief for the PI on the details of the theft by Thursday. Include photos. (Why do they insist on using the word theft. Demeaning. Sounds like a pair of shoes or an old purse.).

All. To keep looking up. (Glad I got that in. He might have escaped and is trying to get home. So dangerous. How would he know how to get back? They wont recognise him. But I would. Especially if he tinkled. Miss his tinkles.)

All. Next meeting on Friday (on-line). All to report on their actions. (Will K come in her disguise?. J would be angry. Can’t have any falling outs.)

To be continued.

Categories
fiction Flash fiction

The Wound

‘Christ, don’t press so hard!’ Tim pulls his bare leg off Mary’s lap.

‘I’m only trying to help.’

‘Help? You’re making it worse.’

‘Could you be more grateful?’

‘It’s your fault anyway.’

‘How in God’s name is my fault?’ Mary stands up and throws the bloodied white towel at her husband. It lands on his lap. ‘Do it yourself.’ She picks his shredded trousers off the floor, takes them through to the bathroom and drops them in the wicker laundry basket. She returns, leans on the fridge, and folds her arms.

‘Oh come on, love.’

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Pretty please? I was picking them for you.’ He smiles up at her from the kitchen chair. It’s a Shaker chair. Oak ladderback. One of six. Hope he doesn’t mark it. She’d saved for months to buy those chairs. Ordered them from an old bloke in Dorset who only makes a few sets a year. She had to buy them earlier than she should have just in case he died. Tim’s pale. Pallid even. Maybe she should take him to a doctor or a nurse or whoever fixes people up these days. But it’s a Saturday afternoon. It’s an hour’s drive to the hospital. There’ll be a massive queue at A and E. Most of them drunks.

‘No.’

‘Oh come on, Mary, I’d do it for you.’ It’s a lie. Of course he wouldn’t do it for her. He never does anything for her. Nothing. Amazon vouchers for Christmas and John Lewis vouchers for birthdays. That’s it. So lacking in imagination he’s never even switched them around. Amazon vouchers for her birthday. That would perk her up. What a surprise. She smiles. Pictures the scene. They’d be laughing together. He’d say look, got you this time girl, and he’d slap her bottom, and she’d pour him a tall glass of Whispering Angel Rosé and straddle his lap. He’d lift up her satin satsuma skirt (bought with the previous year’s vouchers) and kiss her white lace panties. And then…

God, what’s she thinking? Last couple of years he hasn’t even bothered with the cards. Automated emails coming in as regular and tedious as the dreadful mantle clock his parents had given them for their wedding. Still tick tocking its mean little rasp twenty years on. She’d knocked it off the mantlepiece with her elbow twice and still the damn thing wouldn’t die.

He puts a hand on his forehead. ‘I’m all clammy. I might faint.’ He doesn’t look right, she’ll admit that. She sits down across the table from him. The table is covered with loose battered apples. They are large, rose red and pale yellow. Pink Ladies. The Pink Ladies that Tim had been stealing when he’d fallen out of the tree. A forty-nine year old man with sciatica and a heart murmur what with the too much drinking, up a tree nicking apples from the next door farmer’s orchard.

‘Have some water. It’s superficial. Shins always bleed heavy like that.’

‘It’s not superficial, it’s spurting!.’ Mary mutters of course it isn’t spurting only arteries spurt and there’s no arteries there under her breath, gets up, fills a glass with tap water and slides it through the apples towards him.

She’d heard the scream but hadn’t recognised it. She’d put down her book (The Silent Patient by Alex someone if you really want to know the details – Only she knows what happened Only I can make her speak ) and had run out of the house, into the yard and down the lane and there he was. Face down, spread-eagled on the hawthorn hedge, the hedge that was supposed to keep the townie-incomers away from the trees. Their wooden IKEA ladder lay neatly on top of him. Tim, she’d shrieked, Tim is that you?

She is embarrassed about the shriek now. What if Bob the farmer had heard. He’d be furious. He is angry enough. Forever complaining that they didn’t keep their garden just right, that they were introducing pests to his trees, that they used up too much water, that they shouldn’t keep hens if they couldn’t stop the slaughtering vermin foxes etcetera etcetera. Except Bob wouldn’t use the word etcetera. He’s not an etcetera sort of man.

Tim holds the glass with both hands and sips the water. Just in his shirt, pants and socks, his upper body is all wrong for his thick lardy legs, like someone had taken the top half of one doll and stuck it onto the bottom half of another. He’s no Action Man but Mary can’t think what other doll he might be. Maybe dolls are the wrong simile. But Mary can’t come up with another one.

‘Weird,’ she says, after a few moments of silence. ‘See the shape of the wound?’

‘What do you mean?’ Tim looks down at the large bloody laceration on his right shin.

‘Can’t you see it?’

‘No?’

‘It looks like a dinosaur.’

‘A dinosaur?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ, Mary, I’m bleeding to death. And,’ he paused, ‘it’s probably infected.’

Mary stands up and walks around the table to hover beside him. ‘Look,’ she says pointing, ‘there’s the head, and the long jagged neck. It even has those spiny things running all the way down its back. What do they call those ones? Ameg something.’  Tim slumps forward. His eyes are shut.

‘And there,’ Mary continues, ‘look at its big belly, how did you manage that, Tim? I mean it’s perfect. Even its feet and its long tapering tail.’

‘Mary, please. I’m going to pass out,’ Blood leaks down from the dinosaur wound blotting Tim’s white ankle sock red. Be hard to get that stain out. Mary has several bottles of stain remover. Each one has a different coloured label. Each one a different level of toxicity to the environment. All of them over-promising and under-delivering. Not one of them has ever removed a stain. Not properly.

Not that she’s obsessed with stains. It’s just that Tim is a stainer. Better stainer than stoner though. Olive, Mary’s sister, is married to a stoner. Olive sprays her house with Febreze Vanilla Flower (300 mls) every time Mary and Tim visit. Before their visit that is. Olive must think they’re stupid. Mary found a box of the empty aerosols once when she was rooting around in Olive’s garage for pictures of their parents. Olive is such a hoarder. But keeping empty cans? Maybe she’d wanted Mary to find out? To help her with Trevor’s addictions? But you don’t mess with Olive. So Mary just checks that box of aerosols each time and ponders why Olive never tries another brand or fragrance. So many lovely ones to choose from.

‘Can you put something cold on my neck?’ Mary goes to the sink, rinses out a clean dishcloth with cold water, and hands it to Tim. He drapes it over the back of his neck and moans.

‘I wish I could remember the names of the dinosaurs,’ Mary says. ‘Your one there, it’s on the tip of my tongue. I can see it now. Beginning with A. It had two lots of spines, I’m sure of it.’ She leans down and rubs a spot of blood off the chair leg with a finger. Tim pushes her hand away.

‘Mary, for Christ’s sake. You care more about those chairs than me.’ He puts the white towel over the wound and presses down hard. A tight whistling bird-like sound forces its way out through his clenched teeth.  Mary goes back to the fridge and leans into its warm steady tremor.

‘If we’d had children we’d know all the dinosaur names,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest. Tim stands up. The bloody white towel falls to the floor.  His dinosaur shin is bare. He is half-naked with his lardy legs and a wet Lakeland dishcloth around his neck.

‘Every time,’ he says, ‘you twist things round to that. Every bloody time.’  Mary’s stomach tightens. Her pelvis contracts.

‘And why do you think that is?’ she says. He takes a step towards her, stops when he sees her lips twisting, the reddening scrunch of her eyes.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he says. She leans down, picks up the bloody towel and throws it into the sink.

‘That’s right. It was my fault. Every time. Every time. Your bloody wound is nothing. But mine? It just bled and bled.’

Categories
serial

The Cloud. Episode 43

1966, Sydney

Two long raps and a short. Two long raps and a short. Everybody in the Waters family knew the Inspector always knocked twice. Views diverged on the purpose and value of his visits.

Eric, with tight lips and clenched fists. ‘He’ll have nothing new to say. Just leading us on.’

Edward, throwing stuff out of the laundry basket. ‘Has anyone seen my rugby shirt ask him why he looks at Janet that way the creepy little shit.’

Bernadette, with blinked back tears. ‘He’ll have a date this time. He said he would. He has to.’

Janet, with flushed cheeks and a check of her fingernails. ‘Just going to my room (to change).’

Bernadette opened the door and let the Inspector in. He followed her through the hall and into the kitchen. Eric got up from the table and went into the garden, slamming the screen door behind him. Edward, having found his rugby kit, shouted goodbye, that he’d be staying with a friend overnight, and left via the front door. He didn’t say anything to the Inspector.  

Janet stood in front of her open wardrobe and studied the three dresses, the four skirts, and the five blouses. She was bored with yellow, tired of polka dots, and wanted something different. Something grown-up. But she had yet to start her new job, and, without her own money, there was no chance of a new outfit. Not unless the Inspector paid. But they weren’t at that stage. Not yet. And, if Janet was honest with herself (she wasn’t always), they’d only been on one actual date. One date, one kiss, one ice-cream and a large stick of pink candyfloss to share.

The green dress was shorter and tighter than the others. Bought in a sale the one time she’d be into the city centre to shop. Her father had frowned when she’d brought it home and asked how much money she’d wasted on it. Edward had said it was the same colour as the slime down at the sewage treatment works. Her mother hadn’t even noticed. The Inspector hadn’t seen the green dress. She’d been saving it for something special. For when he invited her out to dinner. She changed into the green dress.

‘Hello, Janet,’ he said, as she walked into the kitchen. ‘I was just telling your mother we have a date for the inquest.’ Janet stopped. Her stomach knotted. Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. She’d been sure that this wouldn’t happen. All that international law of the sea stuff would be too complicated. What could they say without a body? They’d call her as a witness. She’d have to swear on something. The bible maybe. Or the queen? Did they even do that in Australia?

Bernadette was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I’m so grateful,’ she said to the Inspector, ‘for all you’ve done for us.’ The Inspector nodded. Patted her arm. Janet poured herself a glass of water from the jug in the fridge. Leant back against the wall. Whose side was he on? How could he have done that to her? Put her in front of the coroner? What’s the point of bringing that stuff up all over again. She gulped back the water.

‘In three months,’ Bernadette said to her daughter. ‘It’s a long time, but at least we know it’s coming.’ Janet couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at the Inspector. He’d betrayed her. Just kissed her to get her to say something. Open her up. Ready her for the prosecution.

‘You look nice,’ the Inspector said. ‘Are you going out somewhere?’ Janet shook her head, left the kitchen and returned to her bedroom. She pulled the dress off, changed into her old clothes, and threw the dress into the back of the wardrobe. She lay face down on the bed, put the pillow over her head, and wept.

Two long raps and a short. Two long raps and a short. That was her door, not the front door. Janet sat up. Yes, she said. The Inspector opened the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Janet. Just wondered whether you’d be free on Saturday night?’

To be continued.

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serial

The Cloud. Episode 42

February 2020, Edinburgh

The first official meeting of the Save Cyril Operation  (SCO – code named Contrail) was in a boutique hotel, tucked away in a side street in Edinburgh’s West End. Jeremy had sent out the invitation via the new WhatsApp group. Bessie had told Jeremy, inadvertently replying to all, that it wasn’t happening in HER room. Jeremy, also replying to all, had noted that he had already booked the PRIVATE dining room and there was no need to shout. Janet hadn’t dared to reply to any of the messages until she had checked with Katherine on how WhatsApp worked and would the police be able to monitor their conversations?  

Janet was the last to arrive. She sat down at the round table and took a peppermint from the bowl, unwrapped it, put the wrapper in her jacket pocket, and popping the clear sweet into her mouth. She poured herself a glass of water, took a sip, and rolled the slap of the cold liquid and fresh menthol over her tongue. She hadn’t been in a private dining room since she’d retired. They hadn’t changed. The trolley by the door had two black thermoses, a plate of individually wrapped shortbreads, and a bowl of half-hearted oranges. No one ever took the oranges in meeting rooms. Presumably, thought Janet, because it was impossible to peel and eat one without spraying orange juice over oneself and the other participants.

The room was windowless, deep grey, and tarted up with maroon and teal furnishings. It wasn’t a colour combination she would have chosen. It made her nauseous.

‘When you’re ready, Janet,’ Jeremy said. Bessie gave Jeremy a sharp look.

‘She’s on time,’ Katherine said. Jeremy flicked open his iPad. Katherine wrote something at the top of her blank notebook. Janet picked up her pen and rolled it between her fingers. She was underdressed. That is, if Jeremy was the standard. Jeremy’s white shirt was fresh, his lilac tie unstained, and his cufflinks chinked in just the right place above his wrist bones. Bessie had also made an effort. A long loose sky blue dress with dungaree straps. A silky crimson shirt. Thick silver bangles that jangled every time she moved. Janet hitched her chair closer to the table. Her tights were suddenly too brown, her skirt too tweedy, and her functional flat shoes an abomination.

‘I assume,’ said Jeremy, ‘that you’ve all heard the police aren’t following up the theft in Glasgow.’

‘The kidnapping you mean,’ Bessie said.

‘So I’ve made contact with the owners.’ Jeremy slid a finger across the iPad. Janet, facing him, couldn’t see the screen. Katherine stopped writing and looked up at him.

‘That wasn’t your decision to make,’ Katherine said.

Jeremy continued, ‘they want to stay out of it, in the background, but they’re happy to contribute funds as and when needed.’

‘Funds?’ Janet said.

‘Yes,’ Bessie replied. ‘We may need to hire someone. You know. An investigator. I mean the police aren’t going to do anything which is why we’re here and Jeremy has experience using experts. He has a whole network and he’s written so many contracts. There are several in Edinburgh. We should get a great price.’ Katherine interrupted her.

‘I said I would go undercover. Why are we hiring investigators? Janet hasn’t got much money.’ Janet stared at Katherine. What did she know about her financial status?

‘I am in the room,’ Janet said. All three looked at her. ‘And it’s my cloud. My Cyril. Why are you all taking over?’ She stopped, not knowing what to say next.

‘Of course,’ Bessie said. ‘We’re all here to help you, Janet. I’m sure Katherine was just being thoughtful. Anyway, we’ve got the money issue covered. There’s nothing to worry about on that front.’

‘I’m not a charity, Bessie.’ Janet’s cheeks were hot. She put a hand to her face, trying to cover them. How had she let them get to this stage? She was perfectly capable of dealing with it. She’d managed much worse successfully. What had happened to her? Was this age? They were treating her like a child. Worse. Same as her mother. She took another mint, straightened her back and looked at each of them in turn for several seconds. Jeremy nodded at her. Bessie twisted her bangles. Katherine blushed and wrote something down on her pad.

‘Let’s get back on track, shall we.’ Jeremy tapped the table with a slender white finger. ‘I’ve done a bit of research. That pair, Dan and Amy…’

‘I’d already done that. We know who they are. Animal rights activists. Can we just get on with it.’ Katherine’s lips were tight.

‘If you’d stop interrupting me I would get on with it. So, Amy and Dan are part of a group operating across the UK called Animal Rights and Protection League. ARPL for short. The others that were with them were probably satellite members – extra cover but not the brains behind the operation.’ He slid a finger across the screen again. ‘It seems they are well funded, and have effective legal support. They’ve been charged three times, been through the judicial system, and found not guilty each time.’

Jeremy carried on talking. Janet worked her way through the mints. Why were men so pompous? Katherine got up and made herself a cup of tea from the thermoses. She interrupted Jeremy every few minutes. Bessie looked across at Janet several times, smiling and jangling. Then there was silence. They were waiting for her to say something.

‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘Could you repeat that?’

‘We have a plan, ‘Katherine said. ‘We need you to agree to it.’ Janet scratched an itch on her elbow. What was wrong with her? She seemed to have lost several minutes. She leant back in her chair.

‘Could you just summarise it’ said Janet. ‘I’m fed up with you all arguing. Jeremy,’ she looked at him, ‘you didn’t do your research on me.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Jeremy.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ Janet said. ‘Retired, but a lawyer.’ Jeremy studied his cufflinks. He didn’t reply. ‘So, go through the plan again and make sure we all understand. And agree. We’re wasting time. Cyril could be anywhere.’ She got up and walked over to the tea trolley. Poured herself a black coffee and took two of the biscuits. ‘And,’ she continued as got back to her chair, ‘Katherine is going undercover and no decisions involving money will be made without checking with me first. But you can hire an investigator. And it has to be a woman.’

To be continued.

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