dear, it’s all right,’ I say, dialling 999. ‘You must have slipped. I’m going to put you in the recovery position now…’
‘Oh it hurts. Oof! Oww! Owwwww!’
‘That’s okay, pain is good. Pain means it’s getting better.’
With her settled as comfortably as she can be on her side in front of the afternoon film – Calamity Jane – I go to my room and wrap my secret love in the sheet he’s lying dead on. There’s a thump when he hits the rug.
‘What was that?’
‘I dropped something,’ I say to the back of her head as I drag AJ’s body across the lounge floor behind her. Doris Day dances about on a counter. Crazy bitch.
Whittaker keeps trying to look back at me. ‘I’m in so much pain, love.’
‘Ahh lie still, Mrs W. The ambulance is on its way. You’re going to be fine but you have to stay still. You could have a broken… primula.’
Could not think of the name of that bone. Damn baby brain.
It’s not my fault. You got yourself into this mess.
I’m sweating like a pork chop as I drag my human fajita through my door and downstairs to Mrs Whittaker’s flat, bundling it inside with seconds to spare. I hear the quick pad pad of shoes down the corridor and I look up to see Jonathan Jerrams careering towards me, arms out.
‘Rhiannon!’ he yells, barrelling into me at speed.
Old Mr and Mrs Jerrams bring up the rear, apologising in his wake.
Jonathan’s my self-appointed ‘best friend ever’ because of something I did for him over two years ago. I saved his life. Sort of. There used to be a guy of no fixed abode who’d hang about the concourse shouting abuse at residents, tipping over bins and stealing bikes. He wore a pig mask to frighten people – I nicknamed him The Notorious P.I.G. Anyway, he picked on Jonathan something chronic because Jonathan has Down’s syndrome and he could get money out of him easily. One day, The P.I.G. threw an apple core at Jonathan’s head as he was coming back from feeding the ducks – one of the few solo pursuits his parents afforded him – and I saw it happen.
It’s one of my rules – defend the defenceless. I had no choice.
So immediately after the apple-flinging, I strode up to the P.I.G., snapped the mask from his face and yelled ‘If you don’t disappear I will visit you in the dead of night and cut your real fucking face off.’ Got spit in his eye and everything. I eyeballed him until he looked away, got onto his bike and sped off, laughing like it didn’t matter. Clearly it did. We never saw him on the estate again.
For ages after, Jonathan left me presents outside my door, sent random cards and flowers, then Craig got jealous and asked him to stop. Now it’s tackle hugs and proclamations of love across the car park.
‘We’re going to the zoo, we are,’ says Jonathan, rocking to a tune only he could hear; trouser hems flapping in the breeze.
‘How lovely,’ I say, wiping facial sweat on my dressing gown sleeve.
‘I like animals, I do.’
‘Yeah, so do I. They’re great, aren’t they?’
The Jerramses laugh for no apparent reason.
Jonathan prods Whittaker’s door with his spoony digits. ‘What’s in there?’
‘I’m watering Mrs Whittaker’s house plants. She’s gone into hospital.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs J. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She had a fall.’
The Jerramses accept this. Whittaker’s a proper Weeble, always falling over – usually in the stairwells. Most residents have had to carry her flabby arse up two flights before now. It’s like a rite of passage in this place.
‘Where’s your dog?’ Jonathan shouts, two feet away.
‘Tink’s staying with my parents-in-law,’ I tell him.
‘Do you like my t-shirt?’
He opens his jacket to reveal a Jaws t-shirt with a sizeable belly underneath and a bolognaise stain on the neck. Why do people who look after the disabled never dress them in good clothes? It’s always cheap Velcro shoes and washed-out charity shop threads that never fit. The shark glared at me, teeth gleaming. It didn’t have as many calcium deposits as Jonathan.
‘Nice,’ I say. ‘You wear it well, JJ.’
I’m still sweating like I’m at hot box yoga even though all I’m doing is talking – meantime I have a corpse mouldering in one flat, a broken pensioner in another and a police forensics team arriving any second. It’s only when I’m making my excuses I realise my dressing gown has opened and boobage is on the prowl. Old Jerrams can’t take his eyes off them. I have to say, it’s a big turn on when he looks up my dressing gown as I’m climbing back up the stairs.
‘What are you doing, Rachel?’ Mrs Whittaker calls out, scaring the crap out of me. I’d forgotten she was still there in front of Calamity Jane. Doris and some other tart are singing about a woman’s work never being done.
Too fucking true, Doris.
‘Just went to see if there was any sign of the ambulance.’ I mop over the oil puddle with a bleachy dishcloth. ‘You all right there while I get changed?’
‘Oh yeah, you carry on love, don’t mind me.’
I change my bed, turn the mattress, Febreeze the room and open both windows. When I’m changed, I go in and sit next to Whittaker and watch a bit more of Calamity Jane ’til the ambulance comes.
‘I’ll water your house plants, don’t worry,’ I call after her as they stretcher her into the lift. ‘And I’ll call Betty for you. Leave everything to me.’
It’s minutes between the ambulance leaving to the police drawing up. I’m on the balcony, chewing a Dime bar. Three be-suited people – a tightly-bunned black woman and two men, one tall, blond and erect; the other like the short tubby guy in Grease who’s about forty years too old for high school. It’s then time to get into character as the wronged girlfriend of a serial killer.
I’ve learned a lot from watching those Crocodile Tears docus on YouTube. It all comes flooding back, like an old First Aid course when you have to treat a casualty. Not that I’ve ever had to. Or would, let’s face it.
I’ve remembered the key points about lying to police and they are these:
1) Strong emotional displays – dead giveaway.
2) Micro-expressions – Keep gestures to a minimum. Rubbing one’s face denotes self-comfort/lying. Stillness/shock are natural responses.
3) Shaking hands – good, if you can manufacture it. Luckily, my hands were shaking efficiently
