Oddly Enough, page 13
No second chances. Although he didn’t want a second chance. Not with her. No, he wanted … what did he want?
The phone was in his hand, although he didn’t remember picking it up, and he typed the number in with one eye squinted shut. It couldn’t hurt, right? 50p on his phone bill, and this was probably cathartic. It was the sort of thing therapists told you to do, attain closure through writing letters that would never be sent, or cleaning and rearranging the house to reclaim it, or acting out some other ritual of farewell. So this would be his. He’d make a wish that would do nothing, but he’d be able to believe that if it did work, they’d both be jealous of him. Maybe she’d even regret leaving, but that had been her choice, just as it had been his choice to drink himself to sleep on the sofa every night for the last three – or was it four now? – weeks. And, most importantly, he’d know he hadn’t wished for her back. And then he could be done.
“Ben,” the woman on the TV said, and he froze. There really couldn’t be many people texting in, if he’d got straight through. “Ben, tell me your wish.”
I want bigger muscles than my ex’s new boyfriend, he typed, feeling shallow and ridiculous. He hit send, and the text appeared on the screen immediately. That was risky. Imagine if someone sent something they needed to censor.
“Use the words, Ben,” the woman said, and her pale gaze seemed to lock with his.
He swallowed, his thumbs lingering over the phone. This was ridiculous. He could dress it up all he wanted, but it was just some petty fantasy. Imagine if his clients heard of this? Worse, his colleagues?
“Ben. We’re almost out of time. Yours is the last wish. Normal programming will resume. There will be no second chances.”
Well, what the hell. Even if anyone he knew was pathetic enough to be sitting up like he was, what were the odds they’d know it was him? And it wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t going to turn up tomorrow with muscles bulging out of his shirt.
He used the words.
Ben woke with a sore back, a mouthful of glue, and a brass band playing in his skull. He rolled off the sofa and staggered to the bathroom, the events of the night before muddled in his head. There had been a woman juicing broccoli to send to Mars? A blender that granted wishes? Someone’s dead husband coming back? No, missing. Had to be missing.
Also had to be a dream.
He clambered into the shower and turned it as cold as he could stand, shivering in the deluge, and decided that this was the last week of moping. It was getting out of hand now. He needed to stop before he did something silly.
Some vigorous toothbrushing and liberal applications of Listerine, deodorant and cologne later, he made it into the car. He felt reasonably human, but not even a double dose of ibuprofen and paracetamol would stop the clanging in his head. He chugged a migraine pill before he pulled away, knowing he’d taken too much paracetamol already, but hoping the codeine would do the trick. His head didn’t even hurt that much, it just sounded as if a high school trumpeter had taken up residence in there. He was never going to be able to concentrate if it didn’t ease off. At least he didn’t have any meetings with clients today. He could snooze a little this morning, and get down to work this afternoon. He’d be fine.
The noise in his head didn’t abate, although it was a little quieter while he was sat in the car. Moving seemed to exacerbate it. He parked up outside his offices and got out, keeping every movement as gentle as possible. Even so, his head trumpeted in outrage, and he tottered straight to the back door without even diverting to the little cafe across the road for a coffee. He’d make do with the office stuff. He just needed to get himself sat down and he’d be fine. He’d be just fine—
“Ben?”
Why was Simon talking so loudly? He was just about shouting, and Ben’s head was already reverberating with noise. “Morning.”
“Morning. Is that a new ringtone? Can you turn it down?” Simon sounded uneasy, worried, and Ben supposed he had a right to be. It was after nine, for a start, and Ben was never late. It was one of those lead by example things. Plus he could feel sweat rising on his face, nausea not far behind, so he probably didn’t look too good.
“Ringtone?” he asked, since Simon was still staring at him.
“The brass band thing you’ve got going on. Ben, are you okay?”
He put a hand to his head gingerly, and the noise changed notes. It really did sound like trumpets, but played by someone – or a whole group of someones – who had only the faintest idea of rhythm and had never looked at a sheet of music in their life. “You can hear that?”
“Of course I can.” Simon left the reception desk and approached Ben. “Do you need to sit down?”
“I … yes. In my office. I’ll sit down in my office.” He shied away from the other man and staggered down the hall, past the meeting rooms and his partners’ offices and into his own, pushing the door clumsily shut behind him and groping for his chair with his eyes half shut. He sat down carefully, taking a couple of deep breaths, and the noise went from a band to quartet.
Ben considered this for a moment, then slid off the chair, ignoring a blare of experimental jazz as interpreted by toddlers, and lowered himself gently to the floor. The toddlers eased off, leaving just a couple of trumpets tootling softly, something you might hear a busker attempting.
He lay flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and noticed a cobweb in one corner. He’d have to mention that to the cleaner. He wondered how long this might last, this migraine, these auditory hallucinations. Auditory hallucinations Simon could hear. He closed his eyes and willed the trumpeters to stop.
There was a soft knock on the door, then it eased open, and Ben endured an enthusiastic blare of noise as he craned his head to look around the corner of the desk at Simon.
“Do you need a doctor?” Simon asked, his forehead creased with concern.
“I don’t know,” Ben whispered.
Simon blinked at him nervously, then ventured in. “I brought you some water,” he said, and set the glass on the floor next to Ben. “Have you had breakfast?”
Ben’s stomach turned over. “No.”
“The noise is still there.”
“I know.” His words were all but swallowed by the horns.
“Would you like me to check your phone? See if it’s an alarm of some sort?”
“Sure.” Ben stayed motionless while Simon crouched down to fish the phone out of his coat pocket, then rocked back on his heels to check it.
“You’ll have to unlock it.”
Ben took the phone carefully and drew the unlock across the screen, his hand trembling as the trumpets upped their jagged tempo. The phone opened to a text screen, and he stared at it through watering eyes. Simon reached to take it, and Ben tightened his grip, the night before suddenly painfully clear.
All wishes are granted. No responsibility is taken if you make an unsuitable wish or change your mind.
All wishes are granted.
The black text on the screen stared back at him stolidly.
All wishes are granted.
Even those made on TV by white-haired women in kaftans, with not a Goblin King in sight.
All wishes are granted.
He let Simon take the phone and switch it off. He didn’t need to look at the text any longer. The words were burned into his mind.
I wish I had bugling muscles.
He closed his eyes and listened to the trumpets playing the ragged tune of his heart.
Plausible Deniability
I had read that the lockdowns of the last year or so (2020 and 2021) had sent the prices of house plants rocketing as everyone tried to bring a little outside in, a little breath of nature for those not fortunate enough to be able to get out in it.
But I hadn’t realised this extended to all plants until an article popped up about shrubs being stolen from a botanical garden in New Zealand. And a little further reading revealed that there was an absolute epidemic of plant theft going on, with the holes left behind sometimes carefully filled, but other times left bare, like a cartoon of a rabbit-infested field.
So, naturally, I realised there was a story there somewhere …
The patrol car was a cocoon of warmth against the sharp edges of the spring night, and Nadira took a sip of takeaway coffee, rubbing weariness from her eyes with her free hand.
“Quiet tonight,” Sam said.
“Quiet’s good,” she replied without much conviction.
“Quiet’s sending me to sleep,” he said, and she snorted agreement.
“Still better than a Friday night, though.”
“True,” he admitted, and held a hand out. “Hit me.”
“M&Ms or brownies?”
“Brownies? You made brownies?”
“Well, I brought brownies.”
He gave her a narrow look. “Tesco’s?”
“I like Tesco’s brownies. You don’t want them, I’ll eat them.”
“I bake when it’s my turn,” he pointed out.
“I baked once, remember?”
“Eh, good point. M&Ms.”
Nadira dug into the bag at her feet, looking for the family-size bag of M&Ms among the Tupperware containers her mum always dropped off for night shifts. Judging by the quantity, her mum held firm beliefs that dhokla and idli offered as much protection from the facets of humanity that always emerged in the wee small hours as their stab vests did.
“What’d your mum make this week?” Sam asked, once he had a handful of chocolate.
“She’s on a health kick at the moment,” Nadira said. “Or she’s putting me on one, I’m not sure.”
“What? So no cheese dosa?” he asked, sounding stricken.
“No dosa,” she confirmed, her gaze still doing the restless tick-tock across the streets and houses they were cruising past, constantly on the hunt for something that wasn’t quite right. And just as she was about to explain that all was not lost, as her mum had apparently decided paneer didn’t actually count as cheese, but was, in fact, a health food, something caught her eye. “Hang about,” she said, as the car purred past the entrance to the new gated community that had gobbled up the site of the old retirement home. The home had been moved across town, after it had been decided it’d cost more to renovate the little independent living bungalows and apartments to a decent state than it would to just build new. That decision coming, oddly enough, at the exact time a developer had been looking for a nice slice of real estate on which to erect a bunch of fancy detached houses with pillars at their doors and hot tubs on the back decks.
All of which Nadira knew because her gran’s bestie and old business partner had a bungalow in the retirement home. Mrs Davis liked the new place, but not the location – it was closer to walk to the shops, maybe, but there were no open fields or quiet woods bordering the property, only takeaways and pound shops.
“What?” Sam asked, his foot already on the brake.
“I spotted someone in the development there. Seems a strange time to be out.”
“Let’s take a look.” He checked the empty streets and swung into a U-turn, heading back to pull up to the big double gates. There was an intercom in the middle of the drive, with a keypad and a little camera above it, to go with the cameras Nadira could see above over the gates.
“It’s like a bloody prison,” she said.
“Just in reverse,” he replied, and frowned at the intercom. “What d’you reckon we hit to get security?”
“Think they’ve got security physically here, or just remote?”
“There’s someone on site full-time, I think. I read about it when it launched.”
Nadira made a face, leaning forward in her seat to peer down the dimly lit street beyond the metal bars of the gates. It was smoothly paved and illuminated by mellow lights set in low pillars on the edges of the houses’ front gardens.
The speaker crackled into sudden life, and a woman said, “Can I help you, officers?”
Sam jerked his hand back in surprise, then grinned and said, “Ah, cameras.”
He reached out to poke a button, and the woman said, “The line’s open. I can hear you.”
“Creepy,” Nadira muttered.
“My colleague spotted someone wandering about as we went past the gates,” Sam said. “Can you let us in so we can check it out?”
“Are you sure?” the woman asked. “It’s almost two in the morning.”
“That’s why it seemed unusual,” Nadira said, loudly enough to be heard on the intercom.
There was a pause, then the woman said, “It’s likely just a resident with insomnia or something.”
“Seems remiss not to check,” Sam replied.
Another pause, and finally the woman said, “I’ll be there in just a moment.” There was a click as the intercom went off, and Sam and Nadira looked at each other.
“She’s not letting us in, is she?” Nadira asked.
“Not unsupervised, anyway. We might make a mess on the carpets.”
Nadira snorted, and wondered if the camera could see her hijab. That’d explain a lot.
They didn’t have to wait long before a fancy little electric vehicle like a souped-up golf cart with a cabin on it zipped down to the gates, and a woman in khaki trousers and a soft jacket with Security printed on the back got out and trotted toward them. She opened the gates with a remote, and came out to meet them.
Nadira swung out of the car, and the woman raised a hand to her in an apologetic sort of wave. “Sorry, but I can’t let you drive in. We have to minimise cars on the streets after nine p.m.”
Nadira smiled and said, “I’ll try to ensure my colleague doesn’t do any boy racer stunts.”
“Can’t you just walk in?” the woman asked. “Or I can take a look around myself. No one but security and residents have access cards, and after nine p.m. you can’t get in without one unless you’re buzzed in by someone inside, even if you’ve got the gate code. So I don’t think you can have seen anyone who shouldn’t be here.”
“No back way in?” Nadira asked, and the woman shook her head.
“Only via the admin entrance, and that’s just as secure. And you can see climbing over is pretty unlikely.”
Nadira looked at the razor wire topping the fence, where the top angled out over the footpath. “Attractive.”
“Secure.” The woman spread her fingers and shrugged. “It’s what they pay for. And, honestly, I’d really rather you didn’t come in at all. If someone sees police on the property, it’ll be a whole thing, and my supervisor’ll be on me about letting the residents get upset over nothing.”
“Which is, of course, much worse than the possibility that someone did circumvent all your fancy security and actually got in.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then the woman sighed. “I can’t stop you, of course. But can you at least come in the buggy with me? Then no one needs to see you.”
“Sure,” Nadira said. “Why not?”
Sam parked the car on the side of the road so that no one could be horrified by the sight of a police car in the drive, and they climbed into the warm confines of the little security buggy. It was surprisingly spacious, with plenty of room for even Sam’s long legs in the back. There was a tablet mounted on the dashboard between the front seats, and the woman – who’d introduced herself as Caitlyn – tapped a quick entry into it before pulling soundlessly away from the gates. They purred down the main street of the development, the near-identical houses set well back in their front gardens, curtains drawn against the night. Not all the houses seemed to be lived in – some had gnomes, or fishponds, or wind sculptures in the front yards, little stamps that declared, this is my house, but a lot stood silent and untouched, the lawns neatly mowed and the flowerbeds tended, but nothing to say anyone lived there. The front gardens were separated by low stone walls that merged into high wooden fences further back, where the houses almost touched each other across the plots. Each had an attached garage to one side that met the dividing fence line, and a gate plugging the gap between the house and the fence on the other.
“Do those gates lock?” Nadira asked.
“Yes. They’ve all got individual codes set by the homeowners,” Caitlyn said.
“I can just feel the level of trust and security within the community from here,” Sam said, and Nadira bit the inside of her cheek.
“What’s that?” she asked as they purred past a cul-de-sac, and Caitlyn braked hard enough that Sam bounced into the back of Nadira’s seat.
“What?” Caitlyn asked, and backed up a little so they could all see. Not that it helped. In the low light of the little street lamps, all that was visible was a bundle in the middle of the road. Caitlyn backed around and drove up to it, and they stared at the small bush lying in the centre of the smooth tarmac, its roots on show and dirt scattered around it. “That wasn’t here earlier,” Caitlyn said. “I do rounds every hour, and it wasn’t here on my last one.”
Nadira opened her door and climbed out, going to crouch in the wash of the headlights and examine the plant. Not that it gave anything away – it was a plant. Her gran would’ve been able to tell her what it was, but as far as she could tell, it was just a small bush of some sort, leafy and green and probably about a metre high, if it had been upright. She straightened and looked around as Sam joined her, and spotted clumps of dirt on the kerb to one side. She followed it, seeing more on the path that led to the gate on the side of the house beyond. She glanced at the letter box – number five – and then at the windows. Curtains stood open on the night, and there were no lights inside, or anything at the front door other than a plain mat. She looked back at Caitlyn, who was standing uncertainly next to the plant as if not sure if she should take it into custody for dirtying the streets or not.
