Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense (6 page)

Had he taken any notice of Jean, he would have seen that she looked tired, fatigue stretching the skin of her face to show her features at their sharpest and sternest. Work was getting busy. She had ahead of her a difficult interview with Mrs Grüber, whose Yorkshire terrier Nimrod had developed a growth between his back legs. It hung there, obscene and shiny, dangling from the silky fur. The animal needed to go to the vet, but Mrs Grüber refused to allow this, convinced that it would have to be put down. Jean feared this suspicion was correct, but knew that the animal had to make the trip to find out one way or the other. It was obviously in pain and kept up a thin keening whine all the time while Mrs Grüber hugged it piteously to her cardigan. And Jean knew that she was going to have to be the one who got the animal to the vet.

Which meant she'd be late again. Which would mean another scene with Mick. He'd become so childish recently, so demanding, jealous of the time she spent with her old people. He had become moody and hopeless. Instead of the support in her life which he had been at first, he was now almost another case on her books. She had discovered how much he feared his job, how he couldn't keep order in class, and, though she gave him all the sympathy she could, it never seemed to be enough.

And then there were the logistics of living in two separate establishments an awkward bus-ride apart. Life seemed to have degenerated into a sequence of late-night and early-morning rushes from one flat to the other because one of them had left something vital in the wrong place. Jean had once suggested that they should move in together, but Mick's violent reaction of fear against such a commitment had kept her from raising the matter again. So their relationship had become a pattern of rows and making up, abject self-recrimination from Mick, complaints that she didn't really care about him and late-night reconciliations of desperate, clinging sex. Always too late. She had forgotten what a good night's sleep was by the time one end had been curtailed by arguments and coupling and the other by leaving at half-past six to get back to her place to pick up some case notes. Everything seemed threatened.

But it was restful in Harry's flat. He seemed to have his life organized. She found it an oasis of calm, of passionless simplicity, where she could recharge her batteries before going back to the difficulties of the rest of her life.

She was unaware of how he was itching for her to go. She saw the evidence of the double glazing and asked him about it, but he was reticent. He didn't want to discuss it until it was finished. Anyway, it wasn't for other people's benefit. It was for him.

Eventually Jean felt sufficiently steeled for her encounter with Mrs Grüber and brought their desultory conversation to an end. She did not notice the alacrity with which Harry Morton rose to show her out, nor the speed with which he closed the door after her.

Again he felt the chill of the corridor when the door was open. And even after it was closed there seemed to be a current of air from somewhere. He went across to his notebook and wrote down “Draught Excluder”.

It was late October when she next went round to see the old man. She was surprised that he didn't immediately open the door after she'd rung the bell. Instead she heard his voice hiss out, “Who is it?”

She was used to this sort of reception from some of her old ladies, who lived in the conviction that every caller was a rapist at the very least, but she hadn't expected it from such a sensible old boy as Harry Morton.

She identified herself and, after a certain amount of persuasion, he let her in. He held the door open as little as possible and closed it almost before she was inside. “What do you want?” he asked aggressively.

“I just called to see how you are.”

“Well, I'm fine.” He spoke as if that ended the conversation and edged back towards the door.

“Are you sure? You look a bit pale.”

He did look pale. His skin had taken on a greyish colour.

“You look as if you haven't been out much recently. Have you been ill? If you're unwell, all you have to do is—”

“I haven't been ill. I go out, do my shopping, get the things I need.” He couldn't keep a note of mystery out of the last three words.

She noticed he was thinner too. His appearance hadn't suffered; he still dressed with almost obsessive neatness; but he had definitely lost weight. She wasn't to know that he was cutting down on food so that his pension would buy the “things he needed”.

The room looked different too. She only took it in once she was inside. There was evidence of recent carpentry. No mess—all the sawdust was neatly contained on newspaper and offcuts of wood were leant against the kitchen table which Harry had used as a sawing bench—but he had obviously been busy. The ratchet screwdriver was prominent on the table top. The artefact which all this effort had produced was plain to see. The fine marble fireplace had been neatly boxed in. It had been a careful job. Pencil marks on the wood showed the accuracy of measurement and all of the screws were tidily countersunk into their regularly spaced holes.

Jean commented on the workmanship.

“When I do a job, I like to do it properly,” Harry Morton said defensively.

“Of course. Didn't you . . . like the fireplace?”

“Nothing wrong with it. But it was very draughty.”

“Yes.” She wondered for a moment if Harry Morton were about to change from being one of her easy charges to one of her problems. He was her last call that day and she'd reckoned on just a quick visit. She'd recently made various promises to Mick about spending less time with her work. He'd suddenly got very aggressively male, demanding that she should look after him, that she should have a meal ready for him when he got home. He also kept calling her “woman”, as if he were some character out of the blues songs he was always listening to. He didn't manage this new male chauvinism with complete conviction; it seemed only to accentuate his basic insecurity; but Jean was prepared to play along with it for a bit. She felt there was something in the relationship worth salvaging. Maybe when he relaxed a bit, things would be better. If only they could spend a little time on their own, just the two of them, away from outside pressures. . . .

She stole a look at her watch. She could spend half an hour with Harry and still be back at what Mick would regard as a respectable hour. Anyway, there wasn't anything really wrong with the old boy. Just needed a bit of love, a feeling that someone cared. That was what most of them needed when it came down to it.

“Harry, it looks to me like you may have been overdoing it with all this heavy carpentry. You must remember, you're not as young as you were and you do have to take things a bit slower.”

“I take things at the right pace,” he insisted stubbornly. “There's nothing wrong with me.”

But Jean wasn't going to have her solicitude swept aside so easily. “No, of course there isn't. But look, I'd like you just to sit down for a moment in front of the . . . by the fireplace, and I'll make you a cup of tea.”

Grumbling, he sat down.

“And why don't you put the television on? I'm sure there's some nice relaxing programme for you to see.”

“There's not much I enjoy on the television.”

“Nonsense, I'm sure there are lots of things to interest you.” Having started in this bulldozing vein, Jean was going to continue. She switched on the television and went into the kitchen.

It was some children's quiz show, which Harry would have switched off under normal circumstances. But he didn't want to make the girl suspicious. If he just did as she said, she would go quicker. So he sat and watched without reaction.

It was only when the commercials came that he took notice. There was a commercial for double glazing. A jovial man was demonstrating the efficacy of one particular system. A wind machine was set in motion the other side of an open window. Then the double-glazed window was closed and, to show how airtight the seal was, the man dropped a feather by the joint in the panes. It fluttered straight downwards, its course unaffected by any draughts.

From that moment Harry Morton was desperate for Jean to leave. He had seen the perfect way of testing his workmanship. She offered to stay and watch the programme with him, she asked lots of irrelevant questions about whether he needed anything or whether there was anything her blessed volunteers could do, but eventually she was persuaded to go. In fact she was relieved to be away. Harry had seemed a lot perkier than when she had arrived and now she would be back in time to conform to Mick's desired image of her.

Harry almost slammed the door. As he turned, he felt a shiver of cold down his back. Right, feathers, feathers. It only took a moment to work out where to get them from.

He picked up his ratchet screwdriver and went over to the bed. He drew back the candlewick and stabbed the screwdriver deeply into his pillow. And again, twisting and tearing at the fabric. From the rents he made a little storm of feathers flurried.

It was cold as she walked along towards Harry's flat and the air stung the rawness of her black eye. But Jean felt good. At least they'd got something sorted out. After the terrible fight of the night before, in the sobbing reconciliation, after Mick had apologized for hitting her, he had suggested that they go away together for Christmas. He hated all the fuss that surrounded the festival and always went off to stay in a cottage in Wales, alone, until it all died down. And he had said, in his ungracious way, “You can come with me, woman.”

She knew it was a risk. The relationship might not stand the proximity. She was even slightly afraid of being alone with Mick for so long, now that his behaviour towards her had taken such a violent turn. But at bottom she thought it would work. Anyway, she had to try. They had to try. Ten days alone together would sort out the relationship one way or the other. And Christmas was only three weeks off.

As so often happened, her new mood of confidence was reflected in her work. She had just been to see Mrs Grüber. Nimrod had made a complete recovery after the removal of his growth and the old lady had actually thanked Jean for insisting on the visit to the vet. That meant Mrs Grüber could be left over the Christmas break without anxiety. And most of the others could manage. As Mick so often said, thinking you're indispensable is one of the first signs of madness. Of course they'd all be all right if she went away. And, as Mick also said, then you'll be able to concentrate on me for a change, woman. Yes, it was going to work.

Again her ring at the doorbell was met by a whispered “Who is it?” from Harry Morton. It was Jean—could she come in? “No,” he said.

“Why not, Harry? Remember, I do have a duplicate key. The Housing Trust insists that I have that, so that I can let myself in if—”

“No, it's not that, Jean love,” his old Northern voice wheedled. “It's just that I've got a really streaming cold. I don't want to breathe germs all over you.”

“Oh, don't worry about that.”

“No, no, really. I'm in bed. I'm just going to sleep it off.”

Jean wavered. Now she came to think of it, she didn't fancy breathing in germs in Harry's stuffy little flat. “Have you seen the doctor?”

“No, I tell you it's just a cold. Be gone in a day or two, if I just stay in bed. No need to worry the doctor.”

The more she thought about it, the less she wanted to develop a cold just before she and Mick went away together. But it was her job to help. “Are you sure there isn't anything I can do for you? Shopping or anything?”

“Oh. Well . . .” Harry paused. “Yes, I would be grateful, actually, if you wouldn't mind getting me a few things.”

“Of course.”

“If you just wait a moment, I'll write out a list.”

Jean waited. After a couple of minutes a page from his notebook was pushed under the door. Its passage was impeded by the draught-excluding strip on the inside, but it got through.

Jean looked at the list. “Bottle of milk. Small tin of baked beans. Six packets of Polyfilla.”

“Is that Polyfilla?” she asked, bewildered.

“Yes. It's a sort of powder you mix with water to fill in cracks and that.”

“I know what it is. You just seem to want rather a lot of it.”

“Yes, I do. Just for a little job needs doing.”

“And you're quite sure you don't need any more food?”

“Sure. I've got plenty,” Harry Morton lied.

“Well, I'll probably be back in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you very much. Here's the money.” A few crumpled notes forced their way under the door. “If there's no reply when you get back, I'll be asleep. Just leave the stuff outside. It'll be safe.”

“Okay. If you're sure there's nothing else I can do.”

“No, really. Thanks very much.”

Harry Morton heard her footsteps recede down the passage and chuckled aloud with delight at his own cunning. Yes, she could help him. First useful thing she'd ever have done for him.

And she hadn't noticed the windows from the outside. Just thought the curtains were drawn. Yes, it had been a good idea to board them up over the curtains. He looked with satisfaction at the wooden covers, with their rows of screws, each one driven securely home with his ratchet screwdriver. Then he looked at the pile of new wood leaning against the door. Yes, with proper padding that would be all right. Mentally he earmarked his bedspread for the padding and made a note of the idea on the “Jobs to Do” list in his notebook.

Suddenly he felt the chill of a draught on his neck. He leapt up to find its source. He had long given up using the feather method. Apart from anything else, he had used his pillows as insulation in the fireplace. Now he used a lighted candle. Holding it firmly in front of him, he began to make a slow, methodical circuit of the room.

It was two days before Christmas, two o'clock in the afternoon. Jean and Mick were leaving at five. “Five sharp, woman,” he had said. “If you ain't here then, woman, I'll know you don't give a damn about me. You'd rather spend your life with incontinent old men.” Jean had smiled when he said it. Oh yes, she'd be there. Given all that time together, she knew they could work something out.