"done her in, reckon there were four or five clues in there"
he says. "Well, three, really, but lets impress her eh?"
"You seem pretty chilled out" says Holder. She drinks her drink like she doesn't want to. Jones drinks like he has to. The glass is already looking empty. He looks at the froth clinging to the glass.
"Lets go out for a cig" he says. He would never arrest a man for smoking in a pub, never, even if his career depended on it.
Outside drizzles on Didsbury. The roads clog the cars and the shops crouch almost right to the edge of the pavements. Jones sees the vegetarian restaurant, the canopies and the canapes, the fucking wicker chairs. Tries to block them out with smoke from his cig
"Yeah, I reckon too" says Holder. "That bit about the telly was just so wrong. And the wrists." He sighs smoke "please"
"Lets put the heat on him when he comes round" she says, as though she has to say something to Jones' silence.
"Too right" He grinds out the cigarette viciously and they head back to the pub. There's only a gulp of beer left but its a gulp, nonetheless
"Lets go"
In the car, he wishes he felt the vodka more strongly than he does, more strongly than it was.
Friday 26 August 2011
Tuesday 21 June 2011
vodka just tastes of memory
Holder is sitting down around the corner.
"Mineral Water and a Real Ale and could I have a double vodka"
The waitress looks as if she'd been thinking of deigning him with a smile, but the vodka puts a bigger smile on the inside of his face. His face seems looser. He takes a big swig of the real ale. Its disgusting but Jones knows that its a respectable drink. Someone drinking a double vodder and a couple of fosters is one thing but a man having a pint of Timothy Taylors is quite another.
He drinks some more ale.
"There is no way she will smell the vodder now" he thinks "no way"
"Here you go" he says. The mineral water looks space aged. Jones knows this is the future. He looks at the real ale. He is on the cusp of a generation which is the pivot between two epochs. One is the internet born, mineral water drinking health future. THe other is dead and gone, dead and jazzed ash and ale at lunchtimes.
"Maudlin" he thinks, he smiles.
"God I could get wasted now. Switch to lager, get some vodders, get pilled up.
He looks at Holder, appraising her. Bollocks to the case, to this Mary. Jones is interested in Holder.
"Has she got the fire in her? Has she stood on a hill in the howling rain and raged? Jesus I am still fucked"
She looks demure and reserved. He sighs. He was never going to have a wonton afternoon anyway. He forces his eyes back to what they see and have seen, not what they'd like to imagine
She looks at him, sees the real ale. She watches the way the sunlight streams in through the clean windows and dusty blinds. Straight, as if it were true. It bounces off the glasses and the ale and the glass at the bar.
Of course she knows why he drinks, of course she does. The idea that she would say anything is beyond laughable.
"So, bollocks to Rawlings and his "Don't judge" shit"" says Jones.
"What do you reckon's happened to Mary then"
"Mineral Water and a Real Ale and could I have a double vodka"
The waitress looks as if she'd been thinking of deigning him with a smile, but the vodka puts a bigger smile on the inside of his face. His face seems looser. He takes a big swig of the real ale. Its disgusting but Jones knows that its a respectable drink. Someone drinking a double vodder and a couple of fosters is one thing but a man having a pint of Timothy Taylors is quite another.
He drinks some more ale.
"There is no way she will smell the vodder now" he thinks "no way"
"Here you go" he says. The mineral water looks space aged. Jones knows this is the future. He looks at the real ale. He is on the cusp of a generation which is the pivot between two epochs. One is the internet born, mineral water drinking health future. THe other is dead and gone, dead and jazzed ash and ale at lunchtimes.
"Maudlin" he thinks, he smiles.
"God I could get wasted now. Switch to lager, get some vodders, get pilled up.
He looks at Holder, appraising her. Bollocks to the case, to this Mary. Jones is interested in Holder.
"Has she got the fire in her? Has she stood on a hill in the howling rain and raged? Jesus I am still fucked"
She looks demure and reserved. He sighs. He was never going to have a wonton afternoon anyway. He forces his eyes back to what they see and have seen, not what they'd like to imagine
She looks at him, sees the real ale. She watches the way the sunlight streams in through the clean windows and dusty blinds. Straight, as if it were true. It bounces off the glasses and the ale and the glass at the bar.
Of course she knows why he drinks, of course she does. The idea that she would say anything is beyond laughable.
"So, bollocks to Rawlings and his "Don't judge" shit"" says Jones.
"What do you reckon's happened to Mary then"
Monday 20 June 2011
"nah" says Jones "fuck that. Thats what commuinity support are for."
he knows this is lax policing, he knows. What he doesn't know, yet, is the regret.
"Lets go and get some lunch first at least" he says.
Holder doesn't say anything. She looks at him again, and, risking it, looks at him.
The cigarette or the smoke, or the way his face looks in the watery, stella coloured sunshine are making her shake. She sits in the driver seat and squirms.
"Lets go to the Metropolitan, its only round the corner, lets grab a sandwich" suggests Jones. He hopes that his guess that he has more than thirty quid left of his overdraft is correct. They drive down Burton Road. They pass the shitty swimming pool, the dilapilated council houses, the offys and then the increasingly posh takeaways as Burton Road goes upmarket as it hits West Didsbury. They manage to park in the last remaining space in the car park. Although it is barely lunch time, the car park is full of expensive cars. Jones is jealous, but then thinks "fuck them"
Inside, he nods at the goregous head waitress, blushes a bit and heads to the bar. The bar is lined with posh bottles, rare vodkas and beers of the world. Jones is more jealous. He could stay in here for days and drink the fucking place dry
"What's your poison" he asks Holder
he knows this is lax policing, he knows. What he doesn't know, yet, is the regret.
"Lets go and get some lunch first at least" he says.
Holder doesn't say anything. She looks at him again, and, risking it, looks at him.
The cigarette or the smoke, or the way his face looks in the watery, stella coloured sunshine are making her shake. She sits in the driver seat and squirms.
"Lets go to the Metropolitan, its only round the corner, lets grab a sandwich" suggests Jones. He hopes that his guess that he has more than thirty quid left of his overdraft is correct. They drive down Burton Road. They pass the shitty swimming pool, the dilapilated council houses, the offys and then the increasingly posh takeaways as Burton Road goes upmarket as it hits West Didsbury. They manage to park in the last remaining space in the car park. Although it is barely lunch time, the car park is full of expensive cars. Jones is jealous, but then thinks "fuck them"
Inside, he nods at the goregous head waitress, blushes a bit and heads to the bar. The bar is lined with posh bottles, rare vodkas and beers of the world. Jones is more jealous. He could stay in here for days and drink the fucking place dry
"What's your poison" he asks Holder
Tuesday 14 June 2011
wordrobe
"lets look in the wardrobe first" says Jones
"How come" asks Holder
"Best place to look to get a picture of a person. You see how they want to be seen, how they see themselves and a hundred other things. Are their socks neatly folded, are their shirts ironed, is anything on the floor. How expensive are their jackets and how expensive are their underpants"
"Go on then, mr BBC 1, have a guess" says Holder
"Him, clothes hung in order, so T-shirts with T-shirts. Will be designer jeans, t-shirts with shitty slogans on and hoodys. Probably one suit, or else one pair of dockers and a single white shirt. No, not white, say, blue. Also, seperated out from the rest one set of jogging pants say, or running shorts something like that. Expensive trainers lined up neat, probably with their boxes. Her"
Jones pauses as if he is thinking, although he is not really thinking, he has seen enough of the clues around the place; the books and cds, the home office, the bathroom
"five our six black skirts and jackets, some sensible blouses, plenty of bras and knickers, anything racy will be at the bottom. I bet hers is less ordered than his"
Holder opens the left hand wardrobe first. It is on the worst side of the room, its facing the bedside table with a book about Tony Wilson on. His. There are some red hoodys, a couple of bodywarmers, some zip up fleeces, sweat shirts and skater jeans. The clothes on the right, the hoodys, the fleeces, the granddad shirts, give way to a single dusty suit. On the floor, at the back and beneath the suit is a pair of sweat pants.
"Bloody hell" thinks Holder though of course she is not going to say that
Her side is overfull with mostly sensible work clothes. Squished in on the right is an old wedding dress and then there are some jogging pants and sweat tops.
"come on lets go" says Jones. He is feeling sick again. He knows the sick will only be foamy spit but he doesn't want to retch in front of anyone. They say their goodbyes to the copper who looks as if he is going to have a nice sit down with a cup of char and the end of "real rescues", and outside, they fumigate the clean air with nicotine.
"Worth talking to the neighbours before we do anything else. After all, he'll be sedated to fuck"
"how did you know that, there? With the clothes?"
"Oh" says Jones. He grinds out the cigarette and looks at it sadly. "Is it too early" he thinks, though he needn't think. It's always too early, or else, never early enough.
"You could tell from his music collection, or their music collection that he was a bit of an anal twat, all cateogrised by genre. He had a home office, which meant he worked at home, which meant clothes he felt comfortable in. We know he was into acid house and rave, and so someone who knew who Pizzaman was would wear clothes which were too young for him, but expensive ones. Someone with tesco's finest moistureser would care about their appearance, so the keep fit clothes would be there. "
He pauses. If he lights another now, no, no, it really is too early
"But the way he slit his wrists was amateurish, slap dash. The type of person who can't even kill themselves properly is the type of person who quickly takes up an idea, but then abandons it when the consequence of the idea gets hard. He'd have seen his beer belly, felt disgust at the sign of ageing, tried to do something about it, but then given up when he realised how much effort it would be"
"And her?"
"Oh, her, she was just a guess" he lies. He doesn't want to be seen as too clever and anyway, it would do holder good to keep an open mind, to not know that Mary Smith's Marriage was in trouble.
"Lets go talk to the neighbours" says Holder. The street is half spy holed net curtains and half matress in the front lawn type houses.
"How come" asks Holder
"Best place to look to get a picture of a person. You see how they want to be seen, how they see themselves and a hundred other things. Are their socks neatly folded, are their shirts ironed, is anything on the floor. How expensive are their jackets and how expensive are their underpants"
"Go on then, mr BBC 1, have a guess" says Holder
"Him, clothes hung in order, so T-shirts with T-shirts. Will be designer jeans, t-shirts with shitty slogans on and hoodys. Probably one suit, or else one pair of dockers and a single white shirt. No, not white, say, blue. Also, seperated out from the rest one set of jogging pants say, or running shorts something like that. Expensive trainers lined up neat, probably with their boxes. Her"
Jones pauses as if he is thinking, although he is not really thinking, he has seen enough of the clues around the place; the books and cds, the home office, the bathroom
"five our six black skirts and jackets, some sensible blouses, plenty of bras and knickers, anything racy will be at the bottom. I bet hers is less ordered than his"
Holder opens the left hand wardrobe first. It is on the worst side of the room, its facing the bedside table with a book about Tony Wilson on. His. There are some red hoodys, a couple of bodywarmers, some zip up fleeces, sweat shirts and skater jeans. The clothes on the right, the hoodys, the fleeces, the granddad shirts, give way to a single dusty suit. On the floor, at the back and beneath the suit is a pair of sweat pants.
"Bloody hell" thinks Holder though of course she is not going to say that
Her side is overfull with mostly sensible work clothes. Squished in on the right is an old wedding dress and then there are some jogging pants and sweat tops.
"come on lets go" says Jones. He is feeling sick again. He knows the sick will only be foamy spit but he doesn't want to retch in front of anyone. They say their goodbyes to the copper who looks as if he is going to have a nice sit down with a cup of char and the end of "real rescues", and outside, they fumigate the clean air with nicotine.
"Worth talking to the neighbours before we do anything else. After all, he'll be sedated to fuck"
"how did you know that, there? With the clothes?"
"Oh" says Jones. He grinds out the cigarette and looks at it sadly. "Is it too early" he thinks, though he needn't think. It's always too early, or else, never early enough.
"You could tell from his music collection, or their music collection that he was a bit of an anal twat, all cateogrised by genre. He had a home office, which meant he worked at home, which meant clothes he felt comfortable in. We know he was into acid house and rave, and so someone who knew who Pizzaman was would wear clothes which were too young for him, but expensive ones. Someone with tesco's finest moistureser would care about their appearance, so the keep fit clothes would be there. "
He pauses. If he lights another now, no, no, it really is too early
"But the way he slit his wrists was amateurish, slap dash. The type of person who can't even kill themselves properly is the type of person who quickly takes up an idea, but then abandons it when the consequence of the idea gets hard. He'd have seen his beer belly, felt disgust at the sign of ageing, tried to do something about it, but then given up when he realised how much effort it would be"
"And her?"
"Oh, her, she was just a guess" he lies. He doesn't want to be seen as too clever and anyway, it would do holder good to keep an open mind, to not know that Mary Smith's Marriage was in trouble.
"Lets go talk to the neighbours" says Holder. The street is half spy holed net curtains and half matress in the front lawn type houses.
Monday 13 June 2011
One door opens
The door is opened by a PC. Holder and Jones nod to him.
The hall is small so the PC has to squeeze against the wall to let the detectives pass. The hall is painted deep red and has oak coloured flooring on the ground. Holder can't tell whether it is laminate, some other fake or real. If it is real, it must have been imported. The idea that the Edwardian builder would ever have considered lavising oak on a house like this is laughable. Holder walks in front of Jones. She is trying to get a mood for the place.
All detectives are nosy and all detectives love looking around people's houses.
She walks down the hallway. There are two and a half rooms downstairs; a living room, a dining room and a kitchen area. She starts with the living room first.
There is a real fire and a fake painting above it. She looks in the grate. It is nearly clean; there are some fragements of burnt paper which must have fallen through. She picks up one fragment, it has "exceptional circumstance we must be forced" but then the words tail off into ash and then nothingless. Unsure, she puts the fragment back and picks up another "tell him believe me but if he gets proof he gets". The font looks likes senoe. She puts that back too. There are some bank statements and junk mail stacked neatly next to the kindling and coal. Evidently the Smiths preferred to burn their paper rather than to trust it to the blue recycling bin. Holder doesn't blame them.
In the room is a big cream sofa which is sagging in the middle. It looks comfortable and slept on. There is a coffee table next to it, with a single mug and a single wine glass on. There is an inch or so of brackish cold black coffee in the coffee mug. It is an Ikea mug, Holder recognises it. There is a centimetre of stained tanin coloured red wine in the wine glass. Its just a wine glass, Holder recognises that, too.
Opposite the fire is the wall with the fire. On one side, above the logs are some shelves. Sunlight is streaming onto the books as if it is illuminating. Jones is in the doorway. Holder ignores him. She takes the one and two thirds steps over to the shelves. They are almost full of neatly stacked pretentious wank. Irvine Welsh (she hates him), Alex Garland (one hit wonder), the usual shit for tossers who think they're educated. Some DVDs of films they don't even bother to hype anymore and some CDs depecting the deline and departure of something; Acid hose collections, verve, urban chillout, classic fm 100 greatest arias.
The tv remote control is on top of the tv. Before they invented plasma, it would have been state of the art.
"BBC 4" she says.
She clicks the red standby button of the controler. The controller is long and thin. The tv warms up, slowly.
"BBC 1" says Jones.
Real Rescue is on. Jones smiles, but inside so that she can only guess the smile is there.
"You were thinking he'd be too pretentious right, and that he wouldn't watch tv in the morning. But if he was worried, he'd be watching the regional news in case it said anything about a body. I bet his laptop is on MEN too."
"Perhaps" she says "Or perhaps he was watching "Case Histories" last night, after all that is a dramatisation of a book. Look, there it is, she says, pointing to the bookcase. He probably sat there all superior when they changed a bit from the book.
In the dining room is a largeish ikea table. The type than can expand. On it is an empty vase and a shut laptop There are more books in here too.
The laptop is plugged in, Holder lifts the lid. Windows 7 Home Ultimate asks her for a password. Hopefully she types in "Smith" then an empty return. She can feel Jones looking at her. She tries "St Cuthbert Road" and then just cuthbert and the welcome screen disappears. She sees that IE is open with two tabs, bbc news for Manchester and MEN. She shuts the lid again. The room is boring and the kitchen is clean. They head upstairs. Three bedrooms, one tiny is full of storage. The backroom has a desk, some filing cabinets and an old IKEA sofa bed. Home office stroke spare bed. The bathroom is bloody from where he slashed his wrists. Judging from the patterns, he did it sitting on the bog. Most of them do that. She sees blood on the toilet roll and blood on the toilet duck. There are blood on her body shop body washes and blood on his tesco finest shaving foam and moisturiser. Blood on the floor and blood on the ceiling. A hot tap is running. Fuck 'em, Holder is going to leave it but Jones switches it off. Checking they have no blood on their soles they walk the two and a half steps across the landing to the main room. A white ikea bed, two white wardrobes and two brown bedside tables. Two lamps, two glasses of water, one radio.
"what do you think" asks Jones
"Dunno, lets go speak to him" says Holder
The hall is small so the PC has to squeeze against the wall to let the detectives pass. The hall is painted deep red and has oak coloured flooring on the ground. Holder can't tell whether it is laminate, some other fake or real. If it is real, it must have been imported. The idea that the Edwardian builder would ever have considered lavising oak on a house like this is laughable. Holder walks in front of Jones. She is trying to get a mood for the place.
All detectives are nosy and all detectives love looking around people's houses.
She walks down the hallway. There are two and a half rooms downstairs; a living room, a dining room and a kitchen area. She starts with the living room first.
There is a real fire and a fake painting above it. She looks in the grate. It is nearly clean; there are some fragements of burnt paper which must have fallen through. She picks up one fragment, it has "exceptional circumstance we must be forced" but then the words tail off into ash and then nothingless. Unsure, she puts the fragment back and picks up another "tell him believe me but if he gets proof he gets". The font looks likes senoe. She puts that back too. There are some bank statements and junk mail stacked neatly next to the kindling and coal. Evidently the Smiths preferred to burn their paper rather than to trust it to the blue recycling bin. Holder doesn't blame them.
In the room is a big cream sofa which is sagging in the middle. It looks comfortable and slept on. There is a coffee table next to it, with a single mug and a single wine glass on. There is an inch or so of brackish cold black coffee in the coffee mug. It is an Ikea mug, Holder recognises it. There is a centimetre of stained tanin coloured red wine in the wine glass. Its just a wine glass, Holder recognises that, too.
Opposite the fire is the wall with the fire. On one side, above the logs are some shelves. Sunlight is streaming onto the books as if it is illuminating. Jones is in the doorway. Holder ignores him. She takes the one and two thirds steps over to the shelves. They are almost full of neatly stacked pretentious wank. Irvine Welsh (she hates him), Alex Garland (one hit wonder), the usual shit for tossers who think they're educated. Some DVDs of films they don't even bother to hype anymore and some CDs depecting the deline and departure of something; Acid hose collections, verve, urban chillout, classic fm 100 greatest arias.
The tv remote control is on top of the tv. Before they invented plasma, it would have been state of the art.
"BBC 4" she says.
She clicks the red standby button of the controler. The controller is long and thin. The tv warms up, slowly.
"BBC 1" says Jones.
Real Rescue is on. Jones smiles, but inside so that she can only guess the smile is there.
"You were thinking he'd be too pretentious right, and that he wouldn't watch tv in the morning. But if he was worried, he'd be watching the regional news in case it said anything about a body. I bet his laptop is on MEN too."
"Perhaps" she says "Or perhaps he was watching "Case Histories" last night, after all that is a dramatisation of a book. Look, there it is, she says, pointing to the bookcase. He probably sat there all superior when they changed a bit from the book.
In the dining room is a largeish ikea table. The type than can expand. On it is an empty vase and a shut laptop There are more books in here too.
The laptop is plugged in, Holder lifts the lid. Windows 7 Home Ultimate asks her for a password. Hopefully she types in "Smith" then an empty return. She can feel Jones looking at her. She tries "St Cuthbert Road" and then just cuthbert and the welcome screen disappears. She sees that IE is open with two tabs, bbc news for Manchester and MEN. She shuts the lid again. The room is boring and the kitchen is clean. They head upstairs. Three bedrooms, one tiny is full of storage. The backroom has a desk, some filing cabinets and an old IKEA sofa bed. Home office stroke spare bed. The bathroom is bloody from where he slashed his wrists. Judging from the patterns, he did it sitting on the bog. Most of them do that. She sees blood on the toilet roll and blood on the toilet duck. There are blood on her body shop body washes and blood on his tesco finest shaving foam and moisturiser. Blood on the floor and blood on the ceiling. A hot tap is running. Fuck 'em, Holder is going to leave it but Jones switches it off. Checking they have no blood on their soles they walk the two and a half steps across the landing to the main room. A white ikea bed, two white wardrobes and two brown bedside tables. Two lamps, two glasses of water, one radio.
"what do you think" asks Jones
"Dunno, lets go speak to him" says Holder
Friday 10 June 2011
I won't try
They take Holder's car. Turning up with a baby seat in the back and Nina Simone cds in the front would not exactly be professional.
Outside in the car park, the rain has held off, just. Heaving flabs of raincloud hang heavy over the city though, over the wine bars and bistros, the tramps and office workers, the outside art and the litter.
Holder smokes a cigarette. Jones watches the way her fingers grip the cigarette and then he watches the way her lips grip the cigarette. She smokes like the smoke is a liquid and she can drink it. After watching her take three gulps of smoke, Jones forgets the promise he made between the chunks this morning and lights up too. It tastes amazing, that's what people forget.
She finishes her cigarette while he still has half to go. She puts a hand on the Peugeot's driver's door, then thinks worse of it, and lights another cigarette. The way her hands grip the cigarette, the way her lips do.
Jones remembers the way his wife started trying to smoke, despite the breastfeeding, when she found out the remission was over. She never could get the hang of smoking though. Jones remembers lighting one and putting it in her mouth in the hospital. He'd hoped it would look as cool as it did in old films. Oh, but the tiredness of her smile. The way she tried to hold his hand at the end. All those tubes.
"Come on" he says. There is not much room in the car ("shitty french cars" thinks Jones, correctly), and he pushes the car seat back.
She starts the motor. Her hands grip the wheel lightly and Jones watches the way her head looks left and right and the way she plays the cheap steering wheel material through the loose grip of her hands. He looks at the way her leather shoes with just unindecent heels press the pedal. She sighs and blows a stay curl which floats above her pretty forehead. He looks at her skin coloured tights, hoping they are stockings. More imagining than seeing, he looks at the way her tights / stockings disappear into her demure skirt. The traffic starts and stops, and as she changes the gear her legs work her skirt up higher. Jones, pleased with his subtlety, lowers his seat back so the angle at which he can watch her legs is unobtrusive. Her blouse is demure too, but he can see the outline of her breasts.
There's no way he is going to try to fuck her
"What do you think" she says. She overtakes a bus.
"fucking free buses" she says. A car honks but the honk merges with a screech and the air. She blasts past marks and spencers, and waterstones and pizza hut and then past the brown sign showing tourists that, on the left at least, is something unique.
"Important to keep an open mind" he says "I know you're hoping this is exciting case where he's done her in. Probably it isn't like that at all"
"yeah I know" she says. she hits play on her stereo
"Midway Still" Mark says, absently.
"Bloody hell, I don't think I've met anyone else up here who knows them
"I know my shoegaze" he says
"They weren't shoegaze" thinks Holder, but she doesn't say anything. She thinks that DI Mark Jones is the most beautiful man she has ever seen. The first time she saw him she nearly laughed at the absurdity of his beauty, at the fact that someone who looked like that would actually be a policeman. Were she not so sure of her ability as a copper, she'd be intimitated by his beauty.
"Who were your favouirte?" she asks
"Oh, slowdive, I think" he says. He used to be so into this sort of music until it all stopped. He blames blur. For a band to write resigned and then get popular and write girls and boys and ruin the whole scene is unforgivable, in his opinion.
She gets out of the centre, they head passed the palace, passed the revolution which used to be the porny cinema, past the new hotel and the old university.
"I wish I still had my siren" she says
"They should let you keep them" he agrees. "Bastards. Either that or let you have machine guns behind your headlights like James Bond does. Imagine gunning down these bastard students"
"That would be ace. I saw Slowdive once"
"Oh yeah, so did I. Whereabouts did you see them"
"At some shitty festival in Slough" (Holder doesn't think that the festival was really shitty, its one of her treasured memories)
"Oh I went to that, to see Ride, wasn't it amazing, in a way" He doesn't really want to talk about being young, though, because sooner or later you've got to talk about being old and that's no fun, no fun at all that is.
"Its no fun being old" he laughs, to show its a laugh.
"No fun at all" agrees Holder. She is doing 55 in the thirty zone past Platt Fields.
"There's a speed camera around here" says Mark "God I sound old" he thinks
"Its out of use" says Holder. She tries to gun the car up to sixty but there is a magic bus lumbering ahead and so she has to slow down to forty eight. Students scowl as they whizz past.
"Fucking" thinks Mark, as they pass Owen's Park
"Students" murmers Holder absently. She takes a right as if she was going to Chorlton. Mark wants to tell her to carry on to not turn left onto Yew Tree Lane but to head to his Flat. Then he thinks of all the baby stuff he's got out. Even when he was a student in Sheffield he used to tidy up his bedroom in halls so that it was spotless before he went out, he could never bring a bird back to a dirty flat.
In any case, there's no question of that, there's really no question at all. Last night in his state, he got a bit of Lilly's ashes that he kept back. There is only a tiny bit of her now. She is kept in an old cigarette tin he keeps under his pillow. He dabbed his finger in her and then, using the spit and the ash, drew a heart shape around his heart. There is ash all over the sheets.
In any case, even though the light is red, Holder hurls the car left onto Yew Tree Lane.
"Those lights are bastards" Holder explains.
They pass the park, turn right into the Old Moat Estate and park up outside. Outside it just looks like any street on any of the few not awful the council estates in Manchester.
"I'll let you handle this" says Mark. They both want a cigarette but both know that its out of the question before an interview like this.
Holder raps the letterbox. The house is made out to be like it is ignoring its council neighbours. Heavy curtains and drapes and a closed iron gate. A heavy front door in oak coloured wood has an iron letterbox with "Letterbox" engraved on it. From behind the door they feel footsteps
They are past rusholme
Outside in the car park, the rain has held off, just. Heaving flabs of raincloud hang heavy over the city though, over the wine bars and bistros, the tramps and office workers, the outside art and the litter.
Holder smokes a cigarette. Jones watches the way her fingers grip the cigarette and then he watches the way her lips grip the cigarette. She smokes like the smoke is a liquid and she can drink it. After watching her take three gulps of smoke, Jones forgets the promise he made between the chunks this morning and lights up too. It tastes amazing, that's what people forget.
She finishes her cigarette while he still has half to go. She puts a hand on the Peugeot's driver's door, then thinks worse of it, and lights another cigarette. The way her hands grip the cigarette, the way her lips do.
Jones remembers the way his wife started trying to smoke, despite the breastfeeding, when she found out the remission was over. She never could get the hang of smoking though. Jones remembers lighting one and putting it in her mouth in the hospital. He'd hoped it would look as cool as it did in old films. Oh, but the tiredness of her smile. The way she tried to hold his hand at the end. All those tubes.
"Come on" he says. There is not much room in the car ("shitty french cars" thinks Jones, correctly), and he pushes the car seat back.
She starts the motor. Her hands grip the wheel lightly and Jones watches the way her head looks left and right and the way she plays the cheap steering wheel material through the loose grip of her hands. He looks at the way her leather shoes with just unindecent heels press the pedal. She sighs and blows a stay curl which floats above her pretty forehead. He looks at her skin coloured tights, hoping they are stockings. More imagining than seeing, he looks at the way her tights / stockings disappear into her demure skirt. The traffic starts and stops, and as she changes the gear her legs work her skirt up higher. Jones, pleased with his subtlety, lowers his seat back so the angle at which he can watch her legs is unobtrusive. Her blouse is demure too, but he can see the outline of her breasts.
There's no way he is going to try to fuck her
"What do you think" she says. She overtakes a bus.
"fucking free buses" she says. A car honks but the honk merges with a screech and the air. She blasts past marks and spencers, and waterstones and pizza hut and then past the brown sign showing tourists that, on the left at least, is something unique.
"Important to keep an open mind" he says "I know you're hoping this is exciting case where he's done her in. Probably it isn't like that at all"
"yeah I know" she says. she hits play on her stereo
"Midway Still" Mark says, absently.
"Bloody hell, I don't think I've met anyone else up here who knows them
"I know my shoegaze" he says
"They weren't shoegaze" thinks Holder, but she doesn't say anything. She thinks that DI Mark Jones is the most beautiful man she has ever seen. The first time she saw him she nearly laughed at the absurdity of his beauty, at the fact that someone who looked like that would actually be a policeman. Were she not so sure of her ability as a copper, she'd be intimitated by his beauty.
"Who were your favouirte?" she asks
"Oh, slowdive, I think" he says. He used to be so into this sort of music until it all stopped. He blames blur. For a band to write resigned and then get popular and write girls and boys and ruin the whole scene is unforgivable, in his opinion.
She gets out of the centre, they head passed the palace, passed the revolution which used to be the porny cinema, past the new hotel and the old university.
"I wish I still had my siren" she says
"They should let you keep them" he agrees. "Bastards. Either that or let you have machine guns behind your headlights like James Bond does. Imagine gunning down these bastard students"
"That would be ace. I saw Slowdive once"
"Oh yeah, so did I. Whereabouts did you see them"
"At some shitty festival in Slough" (Holder doesn't think that the festival was really shitty, its one of her treasured memories)
"Oh I went to that, to see Ride, wasn't it amazing, in a way" He doesn't really want to talk about being young, though, because sooner or later you've got to talk about being old and that's no fun, no fun at all that is.
"Its no fun being old" he laughs, to show its a laugh.
"No fun at all" agrees Holder. She is doing 55 in the thirty zone past Platt Fields.
"There's a speed camera around here" says Mark "God I sound old" he thinks
"Its out of use" says Holder. She tries to gun the car up to sixty but there is a magic bus lumbering ahead and so she has to slow down to forty eight. Students scowl as they whizz past.
"Fucking" thinks Mark, as they pass Owen's Park
"Students" murmers Holder absently. She takes a right as if she was going to Chorlton. Mark wants to tell her to carry on to not turn left onto Yew Tree Lane but to head to his Flat. Then he thinks of all the baby stuff he's got out. Even when he was a student in Sheffield he used to tidy up his bedroom in halls so that it was spotless before he went out, he could never bring a bird back to a dirty flat.
In any case, there's no question of that, there's really no question at all. Last night in his state, he got a bit of Lilly's ashes that he kept back. There is only a tiny bit of her now. She is kept in an old cigarette tin he keeps under his pillow. He dabbed his finger in her and then, using the spit and the ash, drew a heart shape around his heart. There is ash all over the sheets.
In any case, even though the light is red, Holder hurls the car left onto Yew Tree Lane.
"Those lights are bastards" Holder explains.
They pass the park, turn right into the Old Moat Estate and park up outside. Outside it just looks like any street on any of the few not awful the council estates in Manchester.
"I'll let you handle this" says Mark. They both want a cigarette but both know that its out of the question before an interview like this.
Holder raps the letterbox. The house is made out to be like it is ignoring its council neighbours. Heavy curtains and drapes and a closed iron gate. A heavy front door in oak coloured wood has an iron letterbox with "Letterbox" engraved on it. From behind the door they feel footsteps
They are past rusholme
Thursday 9 June 2011
liars use fewer is
Holder, being the most junior officer, organises the meeting between her, Jones and the boss Rawlings. Rawlings is a tall, gingerhaired man whose body ran to fat, unnoticed, after his ego did.
Holder sits demure. Its her first professional posting after leaving the training and probation sections of CID induction. She has her hair tied back and is dressed in a white blouse and sensible skirt. She is dressed like one of the early failures in the Apprentice. Jones is wearing what he always wears, slim black suit, white shirt and black tie. He imagines himself to look like a rat packer. He looks more like a rat catcher on his way to court to answer a summons for unpaid parking tickets. Rawlings looks fat and complacently competent.
"right" he says. Jones sees Holder making a note.
"Surely she's note noting that "right" down", he thinks
"This just came in, " he says. He opens his laptop and clicks an icon. The sound from the speakers is of cheap tin
"Hello, yes, er, I'd like to, er, oh god, I, my wife"
The voice of the operator kicks in, almost bored, almost
"Start at the beginning sir."
"yes, sorry, right. God, my wife, it's my wife you see. She's, well she's missing"
Jones has his eyes shut, listening for clues, for modulations and implications. Liars use fewer first person singulars, and over elaborate. you can discount the sound of nerves or hesitation. Everyone who dials 999 is nervous.
The voice of the operator: "OK, first can you give me her name"
"Mary"
"And her surname?"
"Smith, Mary, Mary Smith"
"And your name"
"Pete. Er, Peter but people call me..Peter my name is Peter"
He sounds stressed alright. Jones is keeping an open mind. Rawlings has a genius for reading people. Sometimes you can tell, even by this stage you just can, but Rawlings loathes short cuts
"And where do you live Pete"
Peter recites his address like a child "15 St Cuthbert's Road, Withington"
"And when did you last see your wife"
"She went out the night before last, sometimes she stays over in town with her friend"
Holder is noting all this down but she doesn't notice the slightness of the pause before friend. Jones does and risks a look at Rawlings. He's noticed it too, of course, and he scowls in response to Jone's look. The scowl says "listen, don't judge"
"OK"
"And then I went to work yesterday morning. I tried ringing her but her phone was off, and she didn't come home last night. I spent all night worrying, but, well, I thought of ringing you but I thought you'd tell me I was being stupid. I looked up how long it has to be before I can report someone missing and as soon as the deadline passed, here I am"
"OK. Have you checked the hospitals? Are you at home now? We'll send an officer round in half an hour or so"
"Of course I've checked the fucking hospitals! Sorry. sorry for swearing, oh god. Oh...mary"
Another pause, but no look this time.
The call continues as the operators talks of procedure and Rawlings shut the lid of the laptop. Jones is sweating, but not from the alcohol, he doesn't think. He loves the chase.
"Poor man" thinks Holder, though of course she knows were she to say that she'd be straight over to traffic.
"That was two hours and thirty eight minutes ago" says Rawlings.
"Why are they calling us in so soon" asks Mark
"When uniform went over there, he had tried to top himself. He's in MRI with wounds to his wrists"
"Which way did he slash them?" asks Mark
"Across, but that doesn't mean anything" says Rawlings
"Yes it does sir" says Holder "If he looked how long it takes before you can report someone missing, he'd look up the best way to slash your wrists. Therefore it wasn't a serious attempt"
For the first time since he saw his face in the mirror while shaving at 6.43am, Rawlings looks impressed. He's not though.
"Yes, but what did they tell you, what have I told you. Keep an open mind. Don't judge just yet"
"He's not sedated then sir"
"Of course not", the look of disgust "Otherwise I wouldn't be bothering you with it. As it is, get over to MRI, he's in ward 4 point 4"
"And Holder" he adds
"Yes sir"
"Watch what Jones here does. He may not look it, but he's average"
Jones tries to suppress the beam of pride he emits but fails, Rawlings looks disgusted. He looks at his watch. 10.17am. Is it too early for a slice of cheesecake?
Holder sits demure. Its her first professional posting after leaving the training and probation sections of CID induction. She has her hair tied back and is dressed in a white blouse and sensible skirt. She is dressed like one of the early failures in the Apprentice. Jones is wearing what he always wears, slim black suit, white shirt and black tie. He imagines himself to look like a rat packer. He looks more like a rat catcher on his way to court to answer a summons for unpaid parking tickets. Rawlings looks fat and complacently competent.
"right" he says. Jones sees Holder making a note.
"Surely she's note noting that "right" down", he thinks
"This just came in, " he says. He opens his laptop and clicks an icon. The sound from the speakers is of cheap tin
"Hello, yes, er, I'd like to, er, oh god, I, my wife"
The voice of the operator kicks in, almost bored, almost
"Start at the beginning sir."
"yes, sorry, right. God, my wife, it's my wife you see. She's, well she's missing"
Jones has his eyes shut, listening for clues, for modulations and implications. Liars use fewer first person singulars, and over elaborate. you can discount the sound of nerves or hesitation. Everyone who dials 999 is nervous.
The voice of the operator: "OK, first can you give me her name"
"Mary"
"And her surname?"
"Smith, Mary, Mary Smith"
"And your name"
"Pete. Er, Peter but people call me..Peter my name is Peter"
He sounds stressed alright. Jones is keeping an open mind. Rawlings has a genius for reading people. Sometimes you can tell, even by this stage you just can, but Rawlings loathes short cuts
"And where do you live Pete"
Peter recites his address like a child "15 St Cuthbert's Road, Withington"
"And when did you last see your wife"
"She went out the night before last, sometimes she stays over in town with her friend"
Holder is noting all this down but she doesn't notice the slightness of the pause before friend. Jones does and risks a look at Rawlings. He's noticed it too, of course, and he scowls in response to Jone's look. The scowl says "listen, don't judge"
"OK"
"And then I went to work yesterday morning. I tried ringing her but her phone was off, and she didn't come home last night. I spent all night worrying, but, well, I thought of ringing you but I thought you'd tell me I was being stupid. I looked up how long it has to be before I can report someone missing and as soon as the deadline passed, here I am"
"OK. Have you checked the hospitals? Are you at home now? We'll send an officer round in half an hour or so"
"Of course I've checked the fucking hospitals! Sorry. sorry for swearing, oh god. Oh...mary"
Another pause, but no look this time.
The call continues as the operators talks of procedure and Rawlings shut the lid of the laptop. Jones is sweating, but not from the alcohol, he doesn't think. He loves the chase.
"Poor man" thinks Holder, though of course she knows were she to say that she'd be straight over to traffic.
"That was two hours and thirty eight minutes ago" says Rawlings.
"Why are they calling us in so soon" asks Mark
"When uniform went over there, he had tried to top himself. He's in MRI with wounds to his wrists"
"Which way did he slash them?" asks Mark
"Across, but that doesn't mean anything" says Rawlings
"Yes it does sir" says Holder "If he looked how long it takes before you can report someone missing, he'd look up the best way to slash your wrists. Therefore it wasn't a serious attempt"
For the first time since he saw his face in the mirror while shaving at 6.43am, Rawlings looks impressed. He's not though.
"Yes, but what did they tell you, what have I told you. Keep an open mind. Don't judge just yet"
"He's not sedated then sir"
"Of course not", the look of disgust "Otherwise I wouldn't be bothering you with it. As it is, get over to MRI, he's in ward 4 point 4"
"And Holder" he adds
"Yes sir"
"Watch what Jones here does. He may not look it, but he's average"
Jones tries to suppress the beam of pride he emits but fails, Rawlings looks disgusted. He looks at his watch. 10.17am. Is it too early for a slice of cheesecake?
Wednesday 8 June 2011
holder
the morning is an unavoidable mistake. Mark pukes most of the night up into the sink in the kitchen. As he sticks his fingers down his throat, and is sick, and then uses his fingers to push the chunks of his stomach lining through the gaps in the plughole, he looks out the window. The view is just the same, as if nothing has changed.
He gets Maisie to school. The bile in his stomach swells and laps at the raw lining of his guts, as if he is at sea. After dropping her off and gently, so so gently, prising her fingers away as she cluctches to his leg, he drives to work. For a second he sits in the car after the engine is off. It ticks and hisses and cracks but then cools. He thinks about sleeping in the back seat, and he thinks about the whisky under the driver's and he thinks of Madeline Peyroux singing
"drink up baby, stay up all night, things you could do, you won't but you might"
And he goes to work.
There is a daily briefing at 9.15, he has eight minutes. He retches into the most discreet toilet, sticking his fingers down his throat until he is happy that there is no sick left in him. If he feels himself starting to hurl in the briefing room, he can at least be content that nothing can come out. He flushes the toilet. The flush is like cheap ocean spray in his face. He feels better for a moment. He crouches like a dog on his haunches. The hot flush from the sick comes and goes, the sweat on his hairy back dries against his shirt.
He stands up. OK.
In the meeting room, the mood is of ostentatious professionalism. Men and women in suits with laptops jostle for the chairs around the big table. Jones is too late, he'll have to stand at the back. He rests his back against the wall. Its ok.
DS Rawlings comes in, looks around and says:
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Right, three shootings last night, two are gang related the third was outside an off licence in Withington. Apparently some drunks fought with the robber and one of them got shot in the leg. NLT" (he means "not life threatening".
"Two domestics, one in Bury but we'll have to cover that because they're fucking useless. OK". He then spends ten minutes dividing the teams up. No one really wants to work on the gang shootings because they have a special team for that who are all bastards to work with. Jones is hoping not to get the Bury murder. He'll play the childcare card.
He's not assigned anything, which is not an indictment on his failures. He hopes to spend the day on his hangover and paperwork.
"got a minute" says DS Rawlings half an hour later.
He gets Maisie to school. The bile in his stomach swells and laps at the raw lining of his guts, as if he is at sea. After dropping her off and gently, so so gently, prising her fingers away as she cluctches to his leg, he drives to work. For a second he sits in the car after the engine is off. It ticks and hisses and cracks but then cools. He thinks about sleeping in the back seat, and he thinks about the whisky under the driver's and he thinks of Madeline Peyroux singing
"drink up baby, stay up all night, things you could do, you won't but you might"
And he goes to work.
There is a daily briefing at 9.15, he has eight minutes. He retches into the most discreet toilet, sticking his fingers down his throat until he is happy that there is no sick left in him. If he feels himself starting to hurl in the briefing room, he can at least be content that nothing can come out. He flushes the toilet. The flush is like cheap ocean spray in his face. He feels better for a moment. He crouches like a dog on his haunches. The hot flush from the sick comes and goes, the sweat on his hairy back dries against his shirt.
He stands up. OK.
In the meeting room, the mood is of ostentatious professionalism. Men and women in suits with laptops jostle for the chairs around the big table. Jones is too late, he'll have to stand at the back. He rests his back against the wall. Its ok.
DS Rawlings comes in, looks around and says:
"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Right, three shootings last night, two are gang related the third was outside an off licence in Withington. Apparently some drunks fought with the robber and one of them got shot in the leg. NLT" (he means "not life threatening".
"Two domestics, one in Bury but we'll have to cover that because they're fucking useless. OK". He then spends ten minutes dividing the teams up. No one really wants to work on the gang shootings because they have a special team for that who are all bastards to work with. Jones is hoping not to get the Bury murder. He'll play the childcare card.
He's not assigned anything, which is not an indictment on his failures. He hopes to spend the day on his hangover and paperwork.
"got a minute" says DS Rawlings half an hour later.
Friday 27 May 2011
somewhere now a plane is going somewhere nice
They get a taxi home because Mark needs ("wants"!) a drink and Maisie is going to be tired. Jenny waves them off but Brendan has gone back to his game. Zombie nazis line up to die obsequiously.
In the flat Mark starts with some joplin, which is a mistake as it reminds him of lilly. He does three vodka shots until there is no vodka. Then he gets on the whisky. He stands in the kitchen, seeing out the window. The view is just the same, as if nothing has changed.
He can hear the telly. Cbeebies finishes at 7 so he sticks on a fireman sam dvd, hating himself for doing so, but then selecting "PLAY ALL EPISODES"
Back in the kitchen, wet ice in the glass, the indifferent view. Mark washes his face. In the films, this always looks good.
He drinks his drink. "I'm quite drunk" he thinks. He has this thing with feet by the sink and for a while he tries it, but it still does not work.
By the time he's finished the whisky, Maisie is sleeping on the sofa. Tender as a memory, Jones picks her up and puts her in his bed. Their bed used to feel so small. Now he has to pile the clothes he needs ironing on her side just so in the night it doesn't feel so empty. Even though she had the best side by the door, he still takes the rubbish side by the cold wall. He lays Maisie in his bed, so tender he holds his breath so she will not get subliminal messages from the fumes from the whisky, so tender he kisses her. He switches off fireman sam, puts on his coat and then goes out to get his drugs. Wet neon light seeps through chorlton like rain through jeans.
In the flat Mark starts with some joplin, which is a mistake as it reminds him of lilly. He does three vodka shots until there is no vodka. Then he gets on the whisky. He stands in the kitchen, seeing out the window. The view is just the same, as if nothing has changed.
He can hear the telly. Cbeebies finishes at 7 so he sticks on a fireman sam dvd, hating himself for doing so, but then selecting "PLAY ALL EPISODES"
Back in the kitchen, wet ice in the glass, the indifferent view. Mark washes his face. In the films, this always looks good.
He drinks his drink. "I'm quite drunk" he thinks. He has this thing with feet by the sink and for a while he tries it, but it still does not work.
By the time he's finished the whisky, Maisie is sleeping on the sofa. Tender as a memory, Jones picks her up and puts her in his bed. Their bed used to feel so small. Now he has to pile the clothes he needs ironing on her side just so in the night it doesn't feel so empty. Even though she had the best side by the door, he still takes the rubbish side by the cold wall. He lays Maisie in his bed, so tender he holds his breath so she will not get subliminal messages from the fumes from the whisky, so tender he kisses her. He switches off fireman sam, puts on his coat and then goes out to get his drugs. Wet neon light seeps through chorlton like rain through jeans.
a sky of slate
Outside rain clods the sky heavy and dirty. Maise and Brendan come in.
"Only in fucking england eh?" says Julie. She tugs at a packet of Embassy. Mark watches the way she tugs the lid and he watches the way her fingers look as they tear the cardboard. He watches, and because he does not like it, he watches some more.
(The last case he worked on involved a young student getting beaten with a bar in a squash court. Mark remembers the stains on the wall, abstracts of meaning and he remembers that the murderer had used the end of the bar to gouge the students eyeballs out. He remembers how she looked, with the squash balls in her eyes. He remembers how the fingers of his boss twitched as he spoke and Mark remembers thinking how he knew he was going to have to be the one who kept calm, who kept things clear and saw things truly, and he remembers how he failed. And because he doesn't like what he remembers, he remembers some more knowing only that when he gets home and gets Maise asleep, so she has made it safe through the day, it will be alright)
"It was fucking hot this morning"
"Only in Manchester" says Mark "There's a drought down south apparently.l It was on the radio"
"Fuckers should plant wheat here. They should tear down this estate, plant their fucking wheat here and we could go and live in fucking sussex. Win win"
"But you hate the south"
Jenny sighs, like he has said something else, like he has said something else entirely
"Yeah, well"
She lights her cig and Mark forces himself to take a glug of the hot green tea. Its worse every time.
"mmm" he says
"You're a terrible liar" and Jenny smiles, and this time it's like he's said something else entirely too, but something good. She smiles
"Hows it going sis"
"Well, you know. Credit card debt, alzheihmers, unemployment and pm fucking t"
"Could be worse"
"yeah i could be a man" His sister tries on trends like a teenager tries on clothes; rapidly and with a sense that, no matter how hard they try, they'll still look ridiculous. She has always been a lesbian, an activist, a student and an artist. But whatever she has claimed to believe in, to Mark, she's always been his big sister, essentially the same except for the shit hair cuts.
Recently, though, she's been depressed and Mark is worried by this. He's worried by how worried he is.
They go through. Normally he would make some sarcastic remark about her doing tai chi or whatever the fuck it was while listening to the pan pipes of tibet or whatever the fuck it was. Instead, as she sits on the bean bag he sits on the hard kitchen chair and they listen to the music. The chiming stops. The next disk comes on, it is the sound of rain
"Oooh, switch this off, it always makes me want to go for a piss" says Jackie.
"So" she says after wards "Three months to the day eh"
Mark doesn't say anything. He knows all about grief and he knows all about silence too. He knows about bodys and their rate of decompostion, which is why he had his wife cremated.
He looks at the bright walls of the kitchen. He and Maise scattered Lilly's ashes on Derwent water, though Masie didn't really know what she was doing. He remembers the way there was a sudden change in the wind direction as the ashes were being released and the ashes blew over them both. He remembers the face Maisie made when she tasted them and hopes that she'll grow up into the sort of girl who'll he'll be able to tell this story too.
He notices the way he is holding the handle of his cup and, after a few seconds and two deep breaths, he manages to relax
"yes" he says. Neither of them are speaking but the room is not quiet. Its only a cheap house and the walls are thin. They can hear the noises their children are making as they play on the stairs. Though they cannot see then, therefore, they still know their children are there, are present.
Unlike Lilly.
Outside the sky darkens, its a sea of slate coloured heavy clouds.
"How's work" asks Jenny. She's shy asking about his work, Mark wonders whether it is that she hasn't got anything to say or else that what she has to say is so vast she dare not say it
They talk about his work until it is time to go
"Only in fucking england eh?" says Julie. She tugs at a packet of Embassy. Mark watches the way she tugs the lid and he watches the way her fingers look as they tear the cardboard. He watches, and because he does not like it, he watches some more.
(The last case he worked on involved a young student getting beaten with a bar in a squash court. Mark remembers the stains on the wall, abstracts of meaning and he remembers that the murderer had used the end of the bar to gouge the students eyeballs out. He remembers how she looked, with the squash balls in her eyes. He remembers how the fingers of his boss twitched as he spoke and Mark remembers thinking how he knew he was going to have to be the one who kept calm, who kept things clear and saw things truly, and he remembers how he failed. And because he doesn't like what he remembers, he remembers some more knowing only that when he gets home and gets Maise asleep, so she has made it safe through the day, it will be alright)
"It was fucking hot this morning"
"Only in Manchester" says Mark "There's a drought down south apparently.l It was on the radio"
"Fuckers should plant wheat here. They should tear down this estate, plant their fucking wheat here and we could go and live in fucking sussex. Win win"
"But you hate the south"
Jenny sighs, like he has said something else, like he has said something else entirely
"Yeah, well"
She lights her cig and Mark forces himself to take a glug of the hot green tea. Its worse every time.
"mmm" he says
"You're a terrible liar" and Jenny smiles, and this time it's like he's said something else entirely too, but something good. She smiles
"Hows it going sis"
"Well, you know. Credit card debt, alzheihmers, unemployment and pm fucking t"
"Could be worse"
"yeah i could be a man" His sister tries on trends like a teenager tries on clothes; rapidly and with a sense that, no matter how hard they try, they'll still look ridiculous. She has always been a lesbian, an activist, a student and an artist. But whatever she has claimed to believe in, to Mark, she's always been his big sister, essentially the same except for the shit hair cuts.
Recently, though, she's been depressed and Mark is worried by this. He's worried by how worried he is.
They go through. Normally he would make some sarcastic remark about her doing tai chi or whatever the fuck it was while listening to the pan pipes of tibet or whatever the fuck it was. Instead, as she sits on the bean bag he sits on the hard kitchen chair and they listen to the music. The chiming stops. The next disk comes on, it is the sound of rain
"Oooh, switch this off, it always makes me want to go for a piss" says Jackie.
"So" she says after wards "Three months to the day eh"
Mark doesn't say anything. He knows all about grief and he knows all about silence too. He knows about bodys and their rate of decompostion, which is why he had his wife cremated.
He looks at the bright walls of the kitchen. He and Maise scattered Lilly's ashes on Derwent water, though Masie didn't really know what she was doing. He remembers the way there was a sudden change in the wind direction as the ashes were being released and the ashes blew over them both. He remembers the face Maisie made when she tasted them and hopes that she'll grow up into the sort of girl who'll he'll be able to tell this story too.
He notices the way he is holding the handle of his cup and, after a few seconds and two deep breaths, he manages to relax
"yes" he says. Neither of them are speaking but the room is not quiet. Its only a cheap house and the walls are thin. They can hear the noises their children are making as they play on the stairs. Though they cannot see then, therefore, they still know their children are there, are present.
Unlike Lilly.
Outside the sky darkens, its a sea of slate coloured heavy clouds.
"How's work" asks Jenny. She's shy asking about his work, Mark wonders whether it is that she hasn't got anything to say or else that what she has to say is so vast she dare not say it
They talk about his work until it is time to go
Tuesday 24 May 2011
green tea, green
His sister, Julie, is sitting on a beanbag. The beanbag is the same colour as the green the hill is in Maise's book. It clashes with the red from Julie's corduroy trousers, which are coloured the same as Mark's horrors.
She sits up
Maise
she say
Goo goo whose getting big
she asks
Mark smiles. His sister puts a hand through her thick hair and then moves to her brother and kisses him. She has thick frizzly hair which make her look as if she has just come in from a storm outside. Again Mark feels a pang of envy. Why couldn't he have had his mother's hair, or at least any hair. He shaved his off just before his wife died. Lily always used to say she liked it and hated him with a shaven head as it made him look like all the other stereotyped coppers. He promised her he'd grow the grade 1 crop out but she died before his hair was ready. Now he keeps it shaved.
darling
she says. Honestly, you'd never guess they were sisters or that she was from Gatley.
I was just meditating
she says
You'd never guess you were from Gatley
He says
You'd never guess you were my brother
she retorts and then she adds
would you like a cup of tea?
He follows her across the cheap laminate that is pine coloured and the tropical plants pining for a light more real than the halogen from the spotlights.
Her son Brendon is on the xbox. A line of zombies are queing up and Brendan is blasting them away. It looks great. Mark bought the game for the kid's christmas, mainly to annoy Julie. She treats her son more like a lodger than a son so felt unable to outright forbid him from playing the game, rather she just moralised constantly on the evils of hollywood. (The game was designed in scotland, but Julie doesn't know that and Brendan doesn't care)
How you doing then
she asks
Fine
he says
You know. Same old
She sighs, she sighs to show yes, she does, she knows.
For a moment she stares at the dried green tea leaves as if they are the most profound thing in the world, but only for a moment, and only shallowly sadly.
Maise coos in her pushchair. She wants to get out.
darling
Julie shouts to her son
do you think you could look after your cousin
There's a sigh and Brendan takes her. Thirty seconds later, though, the zombies are forgotten and he slips back into childhood happily
"He's doing nothing with his life" thinks Mark, briefly, but he's not that bothered and the thought is not large enough to dwell upon for long.
Brendan takes her out into the garden space. Its not really a garden. There's some herbs by the back door, as if Julie one day had woken enthused with alternative energy, had started off and then tailed off.
Wasteland leaves a stain and leaves wait to lilt. Mark keeps an eye on Maise through the dirty window. He knows what this estate is like. Paedos and scumbags are crouched behind the broken fences, waiting to pounce. He knows all about what they can do, an autoposy where the saw was longer than the body.
Its OK
Julie says, but she doesn't say it like she means it, or else she says it knowing she won't be heard
Yeah
says Mark. The water in the kettle shrieks as it starts to be boiled.
She sits up
Maise
she say
Goo goo whose getting big
she asks
Mark smiles. His sister puts a hand through her thick hair and then moves to her brother and kisses him. She has thick frizzly hair which make her look as if she has just come in from a storm outside. Again Mark feels a pang of envy. Why couldn't he have had his mother's hair, or at least any hair. He shaved his off just before his wife died. Lily always used to say she liked it and hated him with a shaven head as it made him look like all the other stereotyped coppers. He promised her he'd grow the grade 1 crop out but she died before his hair was ready. Now he keeps it shaved.
darling
she says. Honestly, you'd never guess they were sisters or that she was from Gatley.
I was just meditating
she says
You'd never guess you were from Gatley
He says
You'd never guess you were my brother
she retorts and then she adds
would you like a cup of tea?
He follows her across the cheap laminate that is pine coloured and the tropical plants pining for a light more real than the halogen from the spotlights.
Her son Brendon is on the xbox. A line of zombies are queing up and Brendan is blasting them away. It looks great. Mark bought the game for the kid's christmas, mainly to annoy Julie. She treats her son more like a lodger than a son so felt unable to outright forbid him from playing the game, rather she just moralised constantly on the evils of hollywood. (The game was designed in scotland, but Julie doesn't know that and Brendan doesn't care)
How you doing then
she asks
Fine
he says
You know. Same old
She sighs, she sighs to show yes, she does, she knows.
For a moment she stares at the dried green tea leaves as if they are the most profound thing in the world, but only for a moment, and only shallowly sadly.
Maise coos in her pushchair. She wants to get out.
darling
Julie shouts to her son
do you think you could look after your cousin
There's a sigh and Brendan takes her. Thirty seconds later, though, the zombies are forgotten and he slips back into childhood happily
"He's doing nothing with his life" thinks Mark, briefly, but he's not that bothered and the thought is not large enough to dwell upon for long.
Brendan takes her out into the garden space. Its not really a garden. There's some herbs by the back door, as if Julie one day had woken enthused with alternative energy, had started off and then tailed off.
Wasteland leaves a stain and leaves wait to lilt. Mark keeps an eye on Maise through the dirty window. He knows what this estate is like. Paedos and scumbags are crouched behind the broken fences, waiting to pounce. He knows all about what they can do, an autoposy where the saw was longer than the body.
Its OK
Julie says, but she doesn't say it like she means it, or else she says it knowing she won't be heard
Yeah
says Mark. The water in the kettle shrieks as it starts to be boiled.
Sunday 22 May 2011
doors with locks, unlocked. Empty clocks
Jones walks along the road to the council estate his sister lives on. Masie is in her push chair looking at a book. There is a picture of a tree. Tree, it says. Hill, it says. There is a picture of a large, empty hill. There is a blue sky, a sun and two lambs. There is nothing about streets, or taxis or takeaway shops.
Jones hates nature. When he was a plod the worst job he ever had, worse than telling sleepy mothers that their sons was dead, was policing the bypass demos. The activists had cameras everywhere and so he couldn't truncheon as many of the little gobshites who so richley deserved it.
He got one girl though, he remembers the shudder as he hit her, and then he remembers the spurt. His balls stir. As he is passing a bargain booze, he pops in. He walks down the road drinking and pushing Masie. But this is Chorlton and he is drinking ostentatiously obscure ale (even the bargain boozes in chorlton sell real ale). So he's fine.
If it were up to him, he'd tarmac over every beauty spot. He'd pay dole scum to burn down forests and he'd make every factory output its shit into the clean clean rivers. God is only nature, and man is stronger than nature.
A breeze blows, but DI Jones does not feel it through the gortex.
He throws the empty bottle into the bushes of the his sister's neighbour.
"hi Sis" he says as he pushes the front door open. For a red split of a second of a second, images he has seen before on entering doors unanswered flash before him, white as sunlight and red as rotted desire. He blinks
"Hiya" he hears. His sister.
He shuts the front door behind him. There are four locks on the door, but since their father has died his sister has not felt the need to lock them
Jones hates nature. When he was a plod the worst job he ever had, worse than telling sleepy mothers that their sons was dead, was policing the bypass demos. The activists had cameras everywhere and so he couldn't truncheon as many of the little gobshites who so richley deserved it.
He got one girl though, he remembers the shudder as he hit her, and then he remembers the spurt. His balls stir. As he is passing a bargain booze, he pops in. He walks down the road drinking and pushing Masie. But this is Chorlton and he is drinking ostentatiously obscure ale (even the bargain boozes in chorlton sell real ale). So he's fine.
If it were up to him, he'd tarmac over every beauty spot. He'd pay dole scum to burn down forests and he'd make every factory output its shit into the clean clean rivers. God is only nature, and man is stronger than nature.
A breeze blows, but DI Jones does not feel it through the gortex.
He throws the empty bottle into the bushes of the his sister's neighbour.
"hi Sis" he says as he pushes the front door open. For a red split of a second of a second, images he has seen before on entering doors unanswered flash before him, white as sunlight and red as rotted desire. He blinks
"Hiya" he hears. His sister.
He shuts the front door behind him. There are four locks on the door, but since their father has died his sister has not felt the need to lock them
Monday 16 May 2011
piss crystals
Back in his flat, DI Mark Jones settles Masie.
She has just started to crawl, so the middle of his small appartment above the cycle shop on Barlow Moor Road is taken up by a gaudy play pen. The bars are white, with cheap plastic covering cheaper metal. There is a little gate, which does not open properly, and Jones opens it.
Inside, tender as sleep, he lays Masie down and changes her nappy. The nursery give her cheap ones. He changes it for a fresh Pampers one. On the nappy is a picture of a dancing teddy bear. Di Jones does not know why they bother adding the design to the nappy.
He stands up, shuts the gate and puts the old nappy in the food bin. (Jones is not really a fan of recycling). The nappy is so heavy that the crystals inside it have started to leak. The piss crystals spill on roaches, and blackening soft banana skins and jars of baby food. Jones looks out the back window. The view is not worth the light. He looks back at the sink. This sink used to be so clean. Sighing, he runs the tap.
The water does not remove the stains, it just covers it up. Mark Jones knows all about stains, professionally speaking. Stains on the clothing and stains on the ceiling and stains on the floor. Stains of stains of stains, dirty and sordid and unhidden, spilled over, spurted from exploding secrets. He shuts his eyes and turns the hot tap off. The boiler hisses as it cools, as it calms down from its seething. There is tiny silence in the kitchenette but massive deep silence from Masie. Di Jones walks over, hating the ceaking of the badly fitted fake white oak laminate flooring, kisses Masie on the top of her head and smokes a joint out the bedroom window. He has three kit kats and a beer for lunch, hating the way the lager and kit kat taste when they are mixed. He listens to 'Careless Love' and texts his sister. Then he wakes Masie (taking delight in her disturbance), cursoralily plays with her and feeds her. Her pushchair and equipment is already good to go.
Outside the heat has gone away. As has Mary Smith. She stepped out of her life as expertly as an actor from the stage, but Mark doesn't know about that yet. He doesn't know about her yellow coloured passion, nor her red coloured stains, not yet.
In the kichen the water dries in the sink, and the stain reappears. Mark Jones walks along Barlow Moor Road, slower than the schoolkids but faster than traffic.
She has just started to crawl, so the middle of his small appartment above the cycle shop on Barlow Moor Road is taken up by a gaudy play pen. The bars are white, with cheap plastic covering cheaper metal. There is a little gate, which does not open properly, and Jones opens it.
Inside, tender as sleep, he lays Masie down and changes her nappy. The nursery give her cheap ones. He changes it for a fresh Pampers one. On the nappy is a picture of a dancing teddy bear. Di Jones does not know why they bother adding the design to the nappy.
He stands up, shuts the gate and puts the old nappy in the food bin. (Jones is not really a fan of recycling). The nappy is so heavy that the crystals inside it have started to leak. The piss crystals spill on roaches, and blackening soft banana skins and jars of baby food. Jones looks out the back window. The view is not worth the light. He looks back at the sink. This sink used to be so clean. Sighing, he runs the tap.
The water does not remove the stains, it just covers it up. Mark Jones knows all about stains, professionally speaking. Stains on the clothing and stains on the ceiling and stains on the floor. Stains of stains of stains, dirty and sordid and unhidden, spilled over, spurted from exploding secrets. He shuts his eyes and turns the hot tap off. The boiler hisses as it cools, as it calms down from its seething. There is tiny silence in the kitchenette but massive deep silence from Masie. Di Jones walks over, hating the ceaking of the badly fitted fake white oak laminate flooring, kisses Masie on the top of her head and smokes a joint out the bedroom window. He has three kit kats and a beer for lunch, hating the way the lager and kit kat taste when they are mixed. He listens to 'Careless Love' and texts his sister. Then he wakes Masie (taking delight in her disturbance), cursoralily plays with her and feeds her. Her pushchair and equipment is already good to go.
Outside the heat has gone away. As has Mary Smith. She stepped out of her life as expertly as an actor from the stage, but Mark doesn't know about that yet. He doesn't know about her yellow coloured passion, nor her red coloured stains, not yet.
In the kichen the water dries in the sink, and the stain reappears. Mark Jones walks along Barlow Moor Road, slower than the schoolkids but faster than traffic.
Saturday 14 May 2011
Nina Simone
Di Jones fumbles for the cigarettes. While he's reaching down he finds a full half sized bottle of whisky. Its the the stuff from Bargain Booze; it's called Claymore and features an over coloured picture of an unconvincing scotsman. Di Mark Jones hates the scots as a rule but he loves whisky.
He takes a big pull and lights his cigarette. Between the whisky splashing his tongue and burning his throat, he worries about the implication of what it means to find a bottle of whisky under your driving seat. But he's a fast drinker, so its OK
Someone honks their horn; the lights are green. Jerkily, he moves off. The traffic is always a killer in rusholme so he stops after 20 meters. In his uniform days he'd have put the siren on and blasted down Upper Brook Street, but those days are gone. These days he's a detective in the CID at Bootle Street Police Station. The station covers all serious crimes in Manchester. As the tories slash the public sector, DI Jones is the most unaffected public servant in England.
The car is hot from the sun and hotter from the engine. Jones wants to open the window, but the air outside is hot and foetid and he doesn't want the students walking past the the traffic jam to hear the nursery rhymes he has playing. His daughter, Masie, is nearly asleep. He's on a half day and has picked her up late from the nursery. When she sleeps, he'll switch off her favourite CD and put on some Nina Simone.
His heart is aching for some Nina. The traffic blumps along, gears grind, buses chug. He reaches under his seat and finds the whisky. There is an empty can of coke he keeps in the car just for this. With expert drunken clumsiness he pours the drink into can. He swigs the can and takes a big pull of the cigarette. He turns the cd off and opens the window to let the worst of the smoke out.
"goo" gurgles Masie. Why won't she sleep? He leans back and grins at her. She is getting too big for her car seat. The first time he and Lily strapped her in there she looked like a dwarf bean. Now her podgy limbs look cramped.
"it hasn't been long enough when it's just been too long" he sings. He doesn't know if its from a line from a song or just something he's made up.
Nina would understand.
He passes the gap where Maine Road used to be and moves through Rusholme, past the students, the burkahs, the drunks and the curry houses. The shops selling international calling cards and the mercedes parked out Indian sweet shops. The houses these shops are made from are only a hundred years old, but its been a long hundred years.
Di Jones takes another pull of whisky. He knows he is drinking too much for the time of day it is. It's only lunchtime, but it's been a long, long morning.
This morning he was dropped from the first murder case he was running. English police never officially close a murder case, but the there have been eighteen more killings since poor sally jenkins was found murdered in Owen's Park, and the force have only solved fifteen of these to date.
There's no real stigma in not catching a murderer for a policeman, there is only tired acceptance. Di Jones knows he did his best, knows that the "what if's" won't gnaw at him; he'll be too busy.
He's going to get Maise home, let her have a sleep, have a joint and listen to some Simone. Then they'll go to Chorlton Water Park and have Maccy Ds for tea.
Tomorrow will bring new murder. No question of that.
He waits. After Rusholme is Fallowfield and he'll swing away right to his flat in Chorlton. He only came this way because he had to drop a file off at the MRI and the nurse was so fit he wanted to give it to her in person. But the nurse wasn't on duty and now he's stuck in this traffic jam wasting his time off.
He longs to listen to some Simone. Nina would understand.
He takes a big pull and lights his cigarette. Between the whisky splashing his tongue and burning his throat, he worries about the implication of what it means to find a bottle of whisky under your driving seat. But he's a fast drinker, so its OK
Someone honks their horn; the lights are green. Jerkily, he moves off. The traffic is always a killer in rusholme so he stops after 20 meters. In his uniform days he'd have put the siren on and blasted down Upper Brook Street, but those days are gone. These days he's a detective in the CID at Bootle Street Police Station. The station covers all serious crimes in Manchester. As the tories slash the public sector, DI Jones is the most unaffected public servant in England.
The car is hot from the sun and hotter from the engine. Jones wants to open the window, but the air outside is hot and foetid and he doesn't want the students walking past the the traffic jam to hear the nursery rhymes he has playing. His daughter, Masie, is nearly asleep. He's on a half day and has picked her up late from the nursery. When she sleeps, he'll switch off her favourite CD and put on some Nina Simone.
His heart is aching for some Nina. The traffic blumps along, gears grind, buses chug. He reaches under his seat and finds the whisky. There is an empty can of coke he keeps in the car just for this. With expert drunken clumsiness he pours the drink into can. He swigs the can and takes a big pull of the cigarette. He turns the cd off and opens the window to let the worst of the smoke out.
"goo" gurgles Masie. Why won't she sleep? He leans back and grins at her. She is getting too big for her car seat. The first time he and Lily strapped her in there she looked like a dwarf bean. Now her podgy limbs look cramped.
"it hasn't been long enough when it's just been too long" he sings. He doesn't know if its from a line from a song or just something he's made up.
Nina would understand.
He passes the gap where Maine Road used to be and moves through Rusholme, past the students, the burkahs, the drunks and the curry houses. The shops selling international calling cards and the mercedes parked out Indian sweet shops. The houses these shops are made from are only a hundred years old, but its been a long hundred years.
Di Jones takes another pull of whisky. He knows he is drinking too much for the time of day it is. It's only lunchtime, but it's been a long, long morning.
This morning he was dropped from the first murder case he was running. English police never officially close a murder case, but the there have been eighteen more killings since poor sally jenkins was found murdered in Owen's Park, and the force have only solved fifteen of these to date.
There's no real stigma in not catching a murderer for a policeman, there is only tired acceptance. Di Jones knows he did his best, knows that the "what if's" won't gnaw at him; he'll be too busy.
He's going to get Maise home, let her have a sleep, have a joint and listen to some Simone. Then they'll go to Chorlton Water Park and have Maccy Ds for tea.
Tomorrow will bring new murder. No question of that.
He waits. After Rusholme is Fallowfield and he'll swing away right to his flat in Chorlton. He only came this way because he had to drop a file off at the MRI and the nurse was so fit he wanted to give it to her in person. But the nurse wasn't on duty and now he's stuck in this traffic jam wasting his time off.
He longs to listen to some Simone. Nina would understand.
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