Oddly Enough, page 22
“I was cutting the hedge, and … well, I don’t know. I was just very clumsy, I suppose.”
Dorothy sat down next to him and unwrapped his hand carefully, squinting at the bloodied fingers. “Pass me your glasses.”
“I don’t—”
“On your head, dear.”
He sighed, and handed them to her. “What would I do without you?”
“Buy lots of specs, I imagine,” she said, and smiled at him, then put his glasses on so she could see a little better. “Oh dear. Yes. It’s not very pretty, is it?”
“Do I need stitches?” he asked, staring fixedly at the photos on the fridge. He’d gone a strange waxy colour.
“Hmm.” She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “No. I think you’ll be fine.” She rewrapped his hand in the cloth. “Keep that elevated.”
He did, holding it above his head with the other hand so he looked like a high diver about to leap into an unseen abyss. “Are you sure? I feel a bit funny.”
“Blood always makes you feel a bit funny. Remember when I stubbed my toe in Spain that time?”
Ted made a gagging noise and went even paler. “Your toenail was hanging off. It was awful.”
Dorothy smiled and went to wash her hands. “Tea?”
“Ooh, please.”
It didn’t take much to get the grass and dirt off the floor – Dorothy was happy they’d opted for wood laminate rather than carpet all those years ago. It was scratched and a little scruffy these days, but much better for staining. The blood was trickier, as Ted had managed to drip it all over the cushions on the kitchen bench seat, as well as the curtains at the windows over the sink somehow, which was annoying. She left those until after dinner to tackle, taking them down once the dishes were safely out of the way.
“But why did you touch the curtains?” she asked again, running them under cold water for the fifth or sixth time and wondering if they were dry-clean only. “There was no need to touch the curtains.”
Ted waved his mug vaguely, splashing tea on the table. He’d given up on holding his arm overhead and had it propped on a saucepan. He’d tried to use cushions until she’d scolded him. “I was trying to get to the sink.”
Dorothy looked from the window to the sink and decided there was no point trying to clarify the issue. Either he’d climbed in the window or had just been panicking, and she rather thought it was the latter. Poor man. He really did hate the sight of blood.
“Are you sure I don’t need stitches?” Ted asked again. There was a steady rivulet of blood working its way out from under the sodden tea towel and down to his elbow.
Dorothy checked her watch and nodded. “Quite sure, dear.”
“It’s bleeding rather a lot. And I do feel most odd.”
Dorothy dropped the curtains in the sink. They’d keep until morning. She topped her mug up from the teapot and set it on a tray, then added a few pieces of shortbread off the plate on the table. “That’s to be expected.”
Ted sighed. “I suppose you know best. You usually do in these things.”
She set a mug in front of him and kissed his cheek. “I do indeed. Now why don’t you pop outside and have your tea out there?”
“It’s almost dark,” Ted objected. “I’ll be cold!”
“I think it’ll clear your head admirably. And I can clean up all this mess.” Dorothy nodded at the bloody smears on the table.
“I’m sorry,” Ted said. “I can clean them if you want?”
“You’ll just make more mess.” She pushed his mug toward him and clapped her hands together. “Off you go!”
He sighed and got up, picking up his woolly hat and jamming it down over his ears. “Alright.” He took his tea and let himself out into the garden, and Dorothy waited until he was halfway to the shed before she quietly turned the lock and shot the deadbolt across. With no curtains, she couldn’t stay in the kitchen. She’d learned a long time ago that it was important not to be seen.
She picked up her tray and switched the lights out as she headed for the stairs, stopping to check that the front door was locked before she climbed up to the bedroom. She drew the curtains on the last of the sunset, folded the bedspread back carefully, plumped the pillows up, then went to brush her teeth. She could hear Ted banging on the door over the insistent buzz of the electric toothbrush.
The banging had stopped by the time she went back into the bedroom, and she checked the time on the little alarm clock on her side of the bed as she changed into her nightie. Yes, that seemed right.
She slipped between the sheets, shivering a little at the coolness on her legs, and settled herself comfortably, her cup of tea steaming softly on the bedside table and her book open on her lap. Outside, a dog was barking in the distance, a dog-walker forgetting the time or a farmer bringing in a last recalcitrant sheep, and she hoped they’d all be indoors soon. It wasn’t a night to be out. Not at this time of the month.
But there was nothing to be done about it now, so she just took a sip of tea and put her ear plugs in, in case of howls. They always unsettled her, the howls.
The morning came in pale and timid, the sky a white dome scorched on the edges with the beginning of the dawn. Dorothy checked the curtains in the sink (they still had a faint shadow of blood on them, but she thought that once they were dry it’d be barely noticeable), checked the time, then unbolted the back door. Ted was curled on the step, entirely naked. Scraps of clothing and tattered slippers littered the lawn.
She bent over and patted his shoulder.
“Ted, dear?”
He moaned, and hugged himself into a smaller ball.
“It’s morning, dear,” Dorothy said, and shook him a little more firmly.
Ted gave a sudden harsh, hungry gasp, like a free diver surfacing from the depths, and uncurled enough to look up at her. There were smudges of blood around his mouth. “Dot?”
“Yes. Come along. I’ve started the shower.”
He sat up and stared down at himself, pale and gently saggy and smeared with mud. “Oh, no. Did I sleepwalk again?”
“You did. But it’s okay. Let’s just get you warmed up.”
“I’m sorry,” Ted said, taking the dressing gown she offered him. “I don’t know what happened. I can’t even remember going to bed.”
“It’s quite alright,” Dorothy said, plucking some feathers from his stubble. “You just get in the shower and I’ll make you a nice big plate of bacon and eggs. How does that sound?”
“That sounds good,” Ted said, and looked at his hand. “You were right, too. Look – the bleeding’s all stopped.”
“Of course it has, dear,” she said. His hand was smeared with so much mud and muck it could have stopped the bleeding all by itself, but she knew that underneath would be nothing but the pale silver lines of old scars. The change healed everything. “Now, shower. Before you catch your death.”
She shooed him to the stairs and watching him stagger up, trailing one filthy hand along the wall and leaving handprints she’d have to scrub off later. She didn’t mind. They’d used the hard-wearing paint. Wipe clean, it was, and very useful.
She turned back to the kitchen and popped the kettle on, giving the curtains a final swirl and draining the water from the sink.
“Fifty-three years of it, and the man still thinks he’s sleepwalking,” she said to the empty room. “Honestly.” Then she switched the computer on so she could check the local groups on Facebook and make sure no one had seen anything untoward, or lost any livestock they might have to be compensated for.
Someone had to keep an eye on such things.
A Significant Debt
I’m not sure if Baz is the same baking-fixated bodyguard as in Organ Thieves, or if baking is actually quite a common (if secretive) pastime for hired muscle. If the former, I can see why he would be craving a change after that particular experience.
I do, however, know why he’s called Baz, and his dad’s called Barry. And that is simply because I have a strange compulsion to call every side character Barry, and at one point promised the wonderful Lynda of Easy Reader Editing (who has to catch all these recurring Barries and get me to change them) a story in which everyone was called Barry.
That seemed a little confusing, so instead we have just two.
Lynda, I’m sorry. Hopefully that’s all the Barries out of my system now.
Maybe.
As for the story itself – well, we all know many things can be raised by repeating their names in a mirror. Which always made repeating self-affirmations in them a little risky, in my mind. …
Thirty seconds.
That’s all it needs for scrambled eggs to go from silky to dry, and less time than it takes for caramel to burn.
It was also, Baz thought, if one were to be particularly picky – and he was – the difference between a tender crumb in a Victoria sponge cake and a subtle, sneaking dryness that not even the buttercream could completely disguise. Not to a connoisseur, anyway.
It was also a good length of time to hold someone’s head in a toilet bowl. Not long enough to drown them, yet more than long enough for them to realise that you could, then to tip into the conviction that you might.
Baz pulled the man back up, ignoring his flailing hands. They weren’t aimed at him, anyway. They were peddling with the same frantic helplessness that a ladybird’s legs have when it lands on its back, until some decent person tips it back upright again.
“Now then, lad,” Baz said conversationally, keeping a firm grip on the back of the man’s jacket. It was some shiny designer thing, and the collar had ripped like cheesecloth. “We were discussing the importance of keeping to payment schedules, and the generosity of my employer in even allowing you such a thing. All due to you being such an excellent customer, like.”
“I am!” The man gasped. “I will, I’m going to pay! It was just this week—”
Baz returned the man’s face to the toilet bowl before he could get his arms out to brace himself on the rim. The timing was the trick of it. The less chance people had to gather themselves, or to mount any sort of resistance, the more disoriented they became, and the less chance anyone was going to get hurt. Well, accidentally hurt rather than intentionally. One just had to know when to let them rest and when to keep working them. Rather like a good bread dough.
He kept an eye on his watch as the man kicked and bucked in his grip, and dimly heard Scotty at the bathroom door say, “Nah, I wouldnae. It’s occupied, mate.”
There was a muttered response, probably someone saying what, the whole thing and Scotty repeated, “Occupied, mate.”
There was nothing after that. No one wanted Scotty getting emphatic about anything.
Baz pulled the man back up, and he gave a high, helpless, screaming intake of breath.
“So when can my employer expect your next payment?” Baz asked pleasantly.
“Next week! Next week, I promise!” The man was almost sobbing.
“That would make you three weeks late,” Baz said. “Obviously there will be penalties for such egregious breaching of the terms of the loan.”
“What?” the man managed, twisting to peer at Baz. His eyes were wide and reddened, and there was toilet paper stuck to his cheek. Quite an effort, considering how often club toilets seemed to be out of paper.
“You pay later, you pay more. Right now, we’re just talking monetary penalties being incurred. But I find myself concerned that you’re not taking your commitments seriously, considering you’re out flashing my boss’s cash in fancy bars and cruising around in a truly hideous car.”
“It’s an RA8,” the man protested.
Baz ignored him. “If I don’t hear that the three weeks of missed payments, plus a twenty-five percent penalty, have been paid by the end of the week, the penalties will move from fiscal to physical. Understood?”
The man stared at him blankly.
“I will start breaking things,” Baz explained, and the man flinched.
“Okay, okay. Twenty-five percent of the weekly payment on top. I’ll do it, I swear.”
“No. Twenty-five percent of all three missed payments, plus the payments themselves, plus let’s get a fourth week in advance, so that we can all rest happy knowing I won’t have to pay you another visit.”
The man blinked at him. “But that’s—”
“A substantial amount, but I’m sure you can start on it by returning your eighty-eight.”
“It’s an RA8.”
Baz just looked at him, his hand tightening on the back of the man’s neck, and the man wriggled.
“Okay, okay! I’ll try!”
“You’ll try. Well, then. That’s just fantastic. I suppose I’ll see you next Saturday, in that case?” Baz grinned, fully aware that the scar which twisted his cheek hiked his lip up into quite an unnerving grimace when he grinned. Everyone took one look at that scar and the size of him and became startlingly helpful, and the man in front of him was no exception. He started nodding so hard Baz thought he might give himself whiplash.
“Okay, yes! Yes, I’ll get it paid, I will, I’ll take the car back, I’ll—”
Baz let go of him and straightened up, pushing out of the stall and letting the door swing shut on the man still huddled over the bowl. He washed his hands carefully, examining himself in the grimy, poorly lit mirror, and wondering why places that could charge twenty quid for a beer still had the same bathroom standard as the local boozer. He met his reflection’s gaze and mouthed, You are more than your job. You are more than your every day. You are all you believe yourself to be.
Then he straightened up and shook the water off his hands, and went out into the shadowy hall, almost bumping into Scotty.
“Sorted?” Scotty asked. He was watching an animated film on his phone and barely looked up.
“Sorted. Let’s get out of here and get a proper drink.”
“Bloody hell, aye. I could murder a pint.”
They hulked their way out of the club, the crowd parting before them like startled sheep, two big men with hard faces and harder hands, one of them thinking he’d prefer a decent glass of rosé and an artisan cheese platter, if he was being honest about things.
Baz leaned against the clean, well-lit sink in his own bathroom, dabbing cream gently around his eyes. He leaned back, picked up the dental floss, and reminded himself, “You are all you believe yourself to be.”
Which, at the moment, was a little reflux-y after six pints and a kebab from some hole in the wall that Scotty insisted was the best kebab shop outside Glasgow. Baz hadn’t realised Glasgow set the world standard when it came to kebabs, but he’d kept that thought to himself. Suggesting to Scotty that Glasgow wasn’t the world standard in anything was liable to earn him a smack. The man was almost endearingly proud of his heritage – he’d even introduced himself as Scotty, rather than wait for anyone to bestow the painfully obvious nickname on him.
Baz had tried, on occasion, to introduce himself as Bartholomew, as Bart made him feel like a cartoon character (and American to boot), and Barry was his dad, may the vicious old sod rest uneasy. But once he expressed his displeasure over being referred to as Barry, Baz it was. He supposed it was better than some of the names his dad had used for him, particularly when he’d found Baz in the kitchen helping his mum.
He touched the scar on his cheek reflexively, then dropped the floss in the bin and set about with his interdental brush. He needed to call his mum, come to think about it. She was in a rather nice home down south, one equipped to deal with people whose pasts were quietly eclipsing their presents. Sometimes, when he visited, she’d grab Baz and whisper, “Your father’s not home yet, is he?”
Baz would pat her hand and say no, he wasn’t coming home. They were safe. Her face would get all soft and dreamy then, and she’d give Baz five pounds for the bus. He was never sure where she thought he was taking the bus to, but he’d just wait until she was asleep, then tuck the note back into her bedside drawer where she could find it next time. Then he’d tiptoe out, trying not to smile at anyone on the way. He’d made one of the residents cry once, by smiling.
He swapped the interdental brush for his electric toothbrush, and reminded himself as he looked in the mirror, You are all you believe yourself to be.
There was a flicker, a sudden dimming or brightening of the lights, like a power surge, there and gone so fast that he frowned at his reflection. Had he seen that, or was the kebab messing with more than his guts? He blinked around the room, but everything stayed steady. Whatever it was, it was gone. He put the toothbrush down and rinsed his mouth out, thinking of the parcel that had been waiting on the mat when he got home. It was the new piping kit he’d ordered, a fancy one with three reusable bags and thirty stainless steel tips, rather than his old plastic one which only had ten and used disposable bags that tended to split if he was using it for choux pastry or a thick buttercream. He wondered if he should try it out tonight. It was late, though.
He was still considering whether he should start with cupcakes tomorrow, to experiment with the different tips, or with biscuits so that he could do some really fine work with the icing, when he wandered into the apartment’s little open plan living area. He was leaning toward biscuits, but as the bathroom door swung shut behind him the thought vanished, and he stopped short.
“What the hell?” he demanded.
The small woman sprawled in his armchair, one leg hanging over the armrest and a copy of Delicious magazine open on her lap, looked up at him and grinned, showing neat white teeth. “Well, hello there, big guy.”
“Where the hell did you come from?” he demanded, trying to see if she had any weapons under the magazine.
“You called me,” she said.
“I most certainly did not.” She didn’t seem to have anything on her lap, but maybe behind her? Or maybe this was the boss’s idea of a bonus. He got weird ideas about such things sometimes, even though Baz had made it clear he was only interested in the sort of bonuses he could use to pay for expensive rest homes. “How’d you get in?” he asked.
