Working from Home
It was Mum who had the idea.
“This job will be the death of you,” she’d said in the early hours last November, as she took in my split lip, black eye, ripped tights, and more unseen.
It had been one of those nights, punters that got off on punching and kicking, thinking they had the right to do whatever they wanted because they paid, certain you wouldn’t tell. Well, who were the police going to believe, a judge or a whore?
“I know, Mum, but what other job would pay as much? And, we have to get the money for Libb’s treatment soon or…”
“You’re right,” she’d said, hugging me, “but I’ve been thinking of a way that you could be safer and work from home”.
“Work from home, are you mad? Do you actually understand what I do? I couldn’t possibly expose you and the kids to the charmers I’ve met tonight. No way!”
“Hear me out, before you dismiss my idea out of hand. I’m not talking about your usual customers but another type of clientele altogether”.
“Go on,” I said sarcastically, “I can’t wait to hear this”.
“Well, I was at Pensioners’ Bingo in the back room of The Nag’s Head today, and the girls are chatting between games, a few too many lagers and limes always loosen their tongues. Reg is getting on my wick, says Sylvia, twice a year isn’t enough for him any longer, apparently, wants to experiment with handcuffs and the like, handcuffs, I ask you. I’m running out of ways to fend him off. My Stan’s the same, agrees Meryl. He’s all hot breath and wandering hands after News at Ten. If I’m not careful, I might be forced to lie back and think of England. Barry’s been buying mucky magazines, June adds. He seems happy enough with them for now, but God help me if he wants more. The whole room became alive with talk of the problem of randy husbands and wives who felt they’d done their bit and just wanted a quiet life. It was then that it came to me that you could be the answer to all their prayers and, them, ours. What do you think?”
“Interesting, but I don’t know, do you think it could work?”
I thought for a moment.
“What the hell, let’s give it a try, I’ve nothing to lose”.
Six months on, and my “Relationship Therapy Business” is thriving. Business hours are strictly Monday to Friday, during school hours. Most of my clients just want a kiss and a cuddle, a bit of human contact, but there are a few, Reg and Barry to name a couple, who want something a bit more kinky, French maid outfits and silk restraints, that sort of thing.
“You’re providing a valuable public service, the girls are much happier,” Mum reported this morning.
“And so are their husbands,” I replied, laughing, as I emptied the dishwasher.
Just Murder
Jenny, the Family Liaison Officer, squeezes my hand reassuringly.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
I look at the police tape on the door and nod.
The house has an eerie calm about it, a fine layer of dust covering every surface, masking the tragedy it watched unfold.
“I just want a few things from my room,” I say hurriedly.
“Take your time, there’s no rush,” Jenny replies, “I’ll be here if you need me”.
I stuff what I can into an old suitcase, clothes, shoes, hairbrush, books, soft toys…. not knowing when or if I’ll be coming back. I pick up the photo from my bedside table, Lena and I carefree, smiling at the camera in front of our grandad’s old, rusting truck.
“We were happy once, Lena,” I whisper to myself, tears filling my eyes.
Everything changed when Mum died, an oppressive black sadness descending on the house. Dad was too consumed with his own grief to consider ours, alcohol and drugs his only comfort. He lost his job, and friends and family deserted him, except for Lena and me. Not that that was much comfort to him. We were a constant, living reminder of what he had lost, and he took that injustice out on us daily, insulting and undermining us, punishing us with ever-increasing acts of violence, followed by tears, apologies, regrets and self-loathing. Gradually, the fabric of our lives broke down completely. I retreated into my shell, and Lena took the punches, dark glasses and Arnica becoming her best friends. She dropped out of school, got a job to put food on the table and pay the bills. It was a shame he vehemently resented, but it didn’t stop him from using her money for his needs.
I was at school when it happened; it had been brewing for weeks. Lena had challenged him, refusing to fund his misery. He had broken her rib for her nerve. The headmistress had put her arm around me as she guided me out of my classroom, the eyes of my classmates following me curiously, some smirking.
Murder-suicide, they called it, but that’s not fair. Was he really the victim and she the murderer? Yes, she plunged the knife into his heart, but hadn’t he killed her bit by bit every day until she felt she was already dead, had nothing to lose?
Alone, under a large black umbrella, precious little protection from the fine March drizzle seeping into my clothes and hair, I watch Lena’s coffin being lowered into the ground. Sobbing gently, I scatter a few pale-yellow flowers from the hedgerows on top of the casket.
“Mum will look after you now, Lena,” I say softly.
Soon, the deep hole will be filled in and the meadow returned to how it was, a patch of primroses in spring, the only thing to remind me of my precious sister.
I didn’t attend my father’s funeral.
Murder-suicide, they called it.
Just murder, I call it.
Dad’s Special Things
Jane hesitated, her hand on the handle of the drawer. She had put off this moment for months, preferring to deal with the more mundane things, jumpers, coats, hats, shoes, nothing too sentimental. Although she had been emotional, angry even, at the state of her Dad’s shoes, he should’ve had better shoes; he had the money, she had raged to herself. Her parents were of the “make do and mend” generation, and she could clearly hear her Mother’s voice, “New shoes? What does he need new shoes for? He’s only had those for a few years, and there’s plenty of wear left in them yet.”
She eased the drawer open and peered in. These were her Dad’s special things, the things collected throughout his life, his most treasured possessions. She took out his wedding ring, holding it tightly in her hand as if she hoped she would feel a little bit of him through it. He hadn’t wanted a wedding ring, Jane remembered being told, but her Mum had insisted, and he had given in; he would’ve done anything for her; he’d felt so lucky she’d said “yes”. She didn’t get it all her own way, though, as he hadn’t gone for a plain gold band, choosing instead a black opal set in gold. He always had flair, Jane thought, a family sightseeing trip to London floating into her mind, Mum trying to watch the pennies and Dad extravagantly buying a beautiful soft black leather wallet from Mappin and Webb, the budget for a whole night’s stay. Still in its box, only used on very special occasions, it now looked so forlorn in the drawer.
She took out a few more things, gold cufflinks, a sapphire blue lacquer ink pen and a Longines watch before she noticed a hint of pink towards the back of the drawer. She reached in and pulled out a pink wooden push-puppet elephant, pristine, no sign of its age. She trembled, a guilty feeling spreading over her. As children, she and her sister had been forbidden from touching it unless given permission and under Dad’s close supervision. This had been so out of character for their ordinarily laid-back, easy-going Father, but even though they both coveted it, they were happy to toe the line; they sensed how precious it was to him. It had been an unexpected birthday gift from the children of the family he had lodged with as a young apprentice in Merthyr, his first time living away from home. A Scotsman in a foreign land of laverbread, daffodils, coal mines and Sosban Fach, they had welcomed him as one of the family, easing his homesickness, and he never forgot their kindness.
Jane clutched the little elephant tightly in her hand, and the tears started to flow.
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