always amazes me how such a warthog manages to get laid so much. Then you’ll catch a glimpse of what’s been banging it – some eight-stone diarrhoea streak with three teeth and sovereigns on every finger. You know the type. There was no sign of a man today though – just a mousey woman in a paisley dress and questionable ankle boots.
Sandra was so close I could smell her cigarette smoke.
You need to nip this one in the bud, you cannot kill her. And stop sniffing that smoke. It’s not good for me.
Mind you, I’d need an elephant gun to take her down.
As Elaine was bringing over our scampi, Sandra moved her chair back, as did the Mousey Ankle Boots. Sandra scuffed towards the trolley parked next to ours at the café entrance and wheeled it away.
‘Sorry, need the loo again,’ I said, getting to my feet.
I followed Huggins and Friend through the bedding plants towards an area of terracotta pots set out in towers on wooden pallets. The women were heading towards the herbs. The mousey one was clearly some kind of social worker – she had a lanyard around her neck and the tag read ‘NewLeaf’ – a quick Google confirmed my suspicions. NewLeaf was a rehab centre for ex-offenders. The closest branch was Plymouth. Obviously Sandra’s case worker.
Mummy, what are you doing?
Mousey Woman’s handbag was on her shoulder, but Sandra’s red leather one was in the trolley, next to two geraniums and a bag of compost. She was picking out her herbs. I ducked down. I had to wait an age before they moved away from the trolley and went to compare lavender plants around the corner. Because I only had seconds, I decided to live within my means – I took the first thing my hand fell upon inside the bag – a small brown envelope – then walked away slowly, blending into the celebration roses.
Inside the envelope was more than I could have hoped for – a wage slip from Mel & Colly’s Farm Shop. Their logo was crossed carrots on a potato. The name on the payslip was Jane Richie – her new moniker perhaps. I knew where that shop was – out towards the motorway. I had her full new name, her National Insurance number, the total hours she’d worked that month.
I even had her address.
Monday, 23rd July – 11 weeks, 1 day
Jim asked if there have been any Airbnb bookings for the Well House.
‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure there will be, any day now.’ Of course there won’t be. Not now I’ve buried AJ in one of the flower beds up there.
I can’t stop thinking about that old sow Huggins. You’d think that dismembering a body in a bathtub would leave me sated for murder for a long time but it hasn’t. What if the ‘serial killer cycle’ is shorter when you’re preggers? What if the feeling of balance and completion doesn’t last so long when you’re killing for two? There’s nothing in the pregnancy books on it, of course, and Google is next to useless on the subject. Though my in utero Jiminy Cricket is putting the kybosh on all those sort of shenanigans via tiredness, heartburn and nausea, I want it so bad. I want her so damn bad.
Plymouth Star guy is back on the doorstep but he hasn’t knocked. He’s just sitting there, looking all handsome and fed up. I wonder if he wants my body? The state it’s in right now, he can have it.
I went downstairs and peeked through the net curtains – there was a bunch of flowers next to him on the step. I opened the door.
‘What’s this?’ I said, startling him into standing up.
‘Hi,’ he said, picking up the flowers – yellow and white roses – and handing them to me. ‘To apologise for hassling you.’
‘You’re apologising for hassling me by hassling me. Are they bugged?’
He laughed, biting his lip.
‘They are, aren’t they?’
‘No no, they’re not bugged I assure you.’
‘Be a waste of time if they were bugged anyway. We don’t talk about the case at home.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
I pretended to zip my mouth. ‘You’re not getting in that way either, Sneak. I know your game.’ I smelled the roses. They didn’t carry any scent at all – mass-cultivated supermarket crap. Ugh. I handed them back to him.
‘You’re going to have to try harder than that.’
‘What do you like then?’ he said as I was closing the door. ‘Tell me and I’ll get it for you. Anything.’
‘Not bribing me, are you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Cos if you are, maybe try doughnuts. Krispy Kreme for preference.’
*
That evening, Elaine dragged me along to her monthly WOMBAT meeting. They’re a Christian women’s group who go on outings, raise money for various different charities, eat cake and pray. Tonight’s meeting featured their new ‘Kindness Circle’.
Yes, it’s just as dull as it sounds.
WOMBAT stands for the Women of Monks Bay and Temperley and Elaine says it’s ‘full of characters’. There’s Big-Headed Edna, Morbid Marge, Poll Potts, who dresses like a sister-wife, Pincushion-Face Grace, Erica the Overfriendly Troll, Bea Moore the Colossal Bore, Wheelchair Pat, Wheelchair Mary, Rita Who Sits By the Heater, Elephant Vadge Madge, Jean Coker the Strokey Smoker, whose palsy makes her look like she’s constantly trying to eat her own neck, Black Nancy and White Nancy. Black Nancy calls me ‘Bab’ and is covered in dog hairs. She’s knitting a cardigan for the baby, whether I want her to or not. I’ve only exchanged brief ‘Hellos’ with White Nancy but as far as I can tell she’s a twat.
This is what I do now. This is what I have become. I meet up once a month with a group of women I don’t want to know. We gossip, we pray and we eat cake. My life will return to normal when the baby’s out in the open, of that I am sure, but while he’s gestating, I’m stagnating. I’m a freak on a leash.
It feels odd. Not wrong exactly, just nothing seems to fit. Everything’s too small. Too mundane. I’m a square peg and every damn hole is round. Yeah sure Baby Bear might be contented but Momma’s getting grizzly.
Erica the WOMBAT secretary had the idea to incorporate Kindness Circle into the meetings and tonight’s is the first one. Spurred on by ISIS and our world leaders basically all being megalomaniacal shits, she thought people needed to ‘make time to be kind’. Everyone breaks off into groups like they’re in the damn Brownies and partakes of kind activities – organising collections for the food bank, creating cross-stitch patterns for underprivileged traffic wardens or sitting around talking about how lovely everything is.
I heard the word ‘lovely’ precisely 126 times this evening. I want to hurt the word ‘lovely’. I want to beat lovely to within an inch of its life, tie lovely in a sack and fucking drown it.
Erica, I should mention, is also responsible for the ‘lovely’ rhymes in the church hall kitchenette:
Wash, wash, wash your plates
Gently down the drain
Rinse rinse, rinse them clean
Then dry them up again
And on the fridge door there’s
Welcome welcome, one and all,
To our communal milk and tea,
But if you use the last of them,
A refill’s nice to see!
And don’t get me started on If you’re happy and you know it wash your hands…
They’re