Sometimes, looking back, Vince thought there were distinct and fundamental reasons for their not being together. A deep animosity would occasionally surface; he wondered what it was about. What did he resent about Andy? Surely the fact that he found things so simple, so clear cut. There was a sentimental streak through Andy that laid him wide open. Together they lay awake late one night watching Andy’s favourite film, Escape from the Planet of the Apes. At the end Vince turned his head on the pillow, looked at Andy and there were tears soaking his face. ‘But she chucked her baby in the water! The FBI killed the baby!’ Andy cried. ‘It’s terrible!’
Vince had to hug him. He shuddered under the blankets. ‘It’s just too sad! They were so nice and trusting!’
Vince kept thinking, but didn’t say, it’s only about apes. Not even that, it’s people dressed up as apes. He kept quiet, though. Now, Terms of Endearment, there was a sad film. Who Will Love My Children? too. That knotted him up inside just thinking about it. And Andy got worked up about monkeys.
He thought about getting up. He slithered over to look at the clock and it was almost lunchtime. He stood and slid open the mirrored cupboard door. A nip of gin. It was early but he was allowed to be decadent on a Saturday. He lay back down with a second glass of gin. He stared at the little colourful jar that sat beside the gin bottle. It was the purple bottle he’d nicked from the taxidermist’s shop. He imagined it had a genie in. A small whiff of magic. Brimstone and treacle. Or a Blue Fairy.
What he really wanted was to wake up with Andy again, now. He wished he hadn’t dashed away. He wanted to make love with him now, more slowly and tenderly than they had yet managed during this reunion of theirs. He wondered why it was always so rushed and intent these days. Brusque, almost. Then, thoughtfully, he began to masturbate. It was with a peculiar sense of guilt, as if he shouldn’t when he was seeing someone. As if it was a betrayal, this slow, practised ease with himself. He squashed that thought and with long, perfect strokes and an occasional sip of neat gin, he made himself come.
Another police car arrived in their street. Jane and Penny watched its blue light give a brief flicker of interest. Something was up, but nothing huge. Jane sighed wearily. ‘I can’t cope with this now.’
Two burly policemen went into Fran’s house. It seemed to be the centre of operations.
‘I’ll have to pick the bairns up from playschool.’
Penny realised for the first time that the kitchen and dining room were still strewn with the wreckage of last night’s entertainment. What’s going on? she thought. Order has collapsed, there are pasta twirls swimming in orange grease in our sink. Jane told her, ‘Keep an eye out here. Let me know when I get back… if they’ve found a body or anything. I don’t want to know yet.’
A body. Penny didn’t know Nesta, but she would certainly have a body. A body that could be found, dead, and have an impact on everyone here. Even those who hadn’t known her. She might be disliked but she could still be murdered and mourned.
Fran caught Jane before she could reach the garden gate. Her slippers slapped on the wet tarmac and she carried a tea towel.
‘They’re starting up a body hunt, down the Burn. We need everyone’s help. Get your coats on.’
‘I’m just off to fetch the kids,’ Jane began. ‘I’ve got to get their dinners on.’
Fran looked at her with sympathy. It sounded so simple. She was jealous of Jane’s evasion. ‘Hurry up and get them. We have to help.’
Shit, Penny thought. I don’t even know the woman.
Fran was looking at Penny. ‘Will you come over to help?’
‘Sure,’ Penny said, sounding surer than she was.
‘I’m going to go round the other doors,’ Fran told her. ‘See who else is about.’
Jane made her apologies again and was gone. Fran rolled her eyes.
He walked the long way round the town, down the Burn, through the blustery morning. He thought he would go and see Penny since, of all the people he’d talked to lately, she’d been the most sensible. His dad was out in the car, looking for things at B &c Q. He’d asked if Vince wanted to come too, to look out for some tools for doing up the garage. He never usually asked him to come. But Vince had demurred anyway, making some tea, feeling woozy from the gin. On the way to Penny’s, crossing the Redhouses, he decided to stop off for some cans. Might as well make a day of it. He wondered what Penny’s mam might think, her daughter’s teacher turning up with booze at lunchtime.
In the shop the woman serving had hair like Gary Glitter: thinning, teased up, hard with lacquer. The radio was playing Status Quo and, under it, she was talking with the women in the queue, their voices low and intent. There was a woman in a smart suit and clunky gold earrings, a very fat woman in a mustard-coloured cardigan and a short, thin woman who looked about ninety. They were all talking about Nesta Dixon, who had disappeared.
‘They’re reckoning they’ll have to comb the Burn,’ the fat woman was saying. This was Big Sue. ‘And all the surrounding countryside.’
‘So they think she’s dead then?’ said the old woman. She was wearing a cape and a dashing hat with a feather in it.
The woman behind the counter in her blue gingham pinafore said, ‘They aren’t going to rule out foul play, that’s what I heard.’
‘I’m not going traipsing about looking for bodies,’ said the smart woman. ‘I can’t be arsed. I’ve got work to go to.’ With that she prompted Judith (her badge read ‘May I help? I’m Judith!’) for her
