What the hell was he supposed to say? What he wanted to say was no, actually, I object to being spoken to like I’m an inconvenience and having my end-days and financial matters planned out for me. Not only that, I’m basically being used for sex and as a part-time housekeeper. What if I took my savings and booked myself into a hotel and ended my life in proper luxury with a seventy-inch flat-screen telly where I could watch porn all day and order room service and if I fancy, spend the whole lot on prostitutes and beer?Because you’d die alone, Herbert, an undignified death in a room in a hospice where hundreds had gone before you, with nobody to mourn your passing. Not one single person would grieve for you, attend your funeral even. You’d give the naysayers their moment before they spat on your grave. And you don’t want that, do you?
‘My dear Maggie May, of course I am agreeable and I will do whatever it takes to make you happy in the time I have left, I promise.’ Opening his arms wide, Herbert swallowed down his irritation as she left her armchair and knelt before him, clinging on, whispering her thanks, his semi-supplicant.
Herbert patted and shushed, masking the fact he was consumed by rage while the urge to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze the life from her was only barely resistible. How dare she thwart him, wrong-foot him like this? It was as though she was mocking him like all the others had done. He’d made them sorry and if she knew what was good for her, what he was truly capable of, then she’d watch her step. Herbert smothered the anger within and knew he had to do something with it. And as he rubbed Margaret’s bony back, he told himself to bide his time because, come to think of it, he could use all this to his advantage.
All was not lost. Maybe being sent to his room was a good thing, away from her constant scrutiny and brain-searing voice and beady eyes. Margaret would have no idea what he was up to between his four walls, or what went on in his head. Over that she had no control. And she’d make a wonderful alibi if he decided to take revenge on those scumbags in the village.
Thirty minutes later, Herbert’s interview was over. He’d made the grade and got the job, although it appeared his position remained tenable and open to review, subject to terms and conditions. As he ambled into the kitchen to make up a tray – coffee and an assortment of biscuits were required by Margaret – Herbert was in a mild state of shock. On reflection, as he ruefully made coffee, he wasn’t really sure if he wanted the bloody job. And it was only his first day!
* * *
Herbert replaced the watering can under the sink and gave the kitchen a cursory glance to check it was assheliked it, then glanced at his watch, noting he had an hour or so before Margaret was due back from shopping. She’d been like a whirlwind that morning, rushing about with her lists and making appointments on the phone, then there was that blasted Facebook. Over the past few weeks she’d gone social media mad, tweeting, following celebs, joining groups, like Women Who Travel Solo, Women Business, Women Who Get On My Bloody Nerves! She loved telling him about her new virtual friends who she chatted to while he watched telly or read, like the invisible man in the corner.They’re not your friends, you daft cowis what he silently screamed as he turned a page.
Margaret was definitely on a trip, though, a power trip. She’d bought some new suits and very high heels for when she met with the estate agent and solicitor. She even had a briefcase and new stationery like it was the first day at school. God, she made him cringe especially when she’d bought a white sports car like Kim Tate’s onEmmerdale, for heaven’s sake. Herbert thought Margaret was definitely punching above her weight there.
She’d explained it over dinner while she guzzled Prosecco and Herbert warmed things up in the microwave since she’d taken to buying ready meals. It seemed business women have no time to cook. She had concocted a grand plan to avenge anyone who had even remotely offended her and at the centre of it all was the hardware shop. Margaret had decided she didn’t need to spend eight hours a day earning a pittance, flogging the odd bottle of turpentine or cutting a key for people who despised her. The only reason she’d carried on was in honour of her parents and to pass the days. Shopping in the village was a trial-by-cold-shoulder, never a friendly smile at the baker’s or butcher’s. And even Elsie who ran the wool shop, once her favourite haunt, gave her short shrift. They could all sod off, apparently.
Instead Margaret was looking at two options. Renting her store to the most unsavoury and unsightly business venture that came along or; re-opening it herself selling sexy lingerie. Imagine the villagers’ faces when they saw a window adorned with the most vulgar underwear she could lay her hands on. Margaret didn’t even care if she didn’t sell so much as a stocking, as long as it annoyed the hell out of everyone in Elkdale. Herbert nearly choked on his macaroni cheese when she mentioned that.
Her premises stood slap bang in the middle of a row of traditional family-run outlets in a quaint village that prided itself on coming second in the ‘Best Kept’ category year on year.
Owning the shop outright was a bonus and Margaret could leave it empty if she wanted, to rot and lower the tone, or rent it to a kebab vendor, or maybe a tattooist, with neon flashing lights that would ruin the ambience of the baker’s and Ye Olde Sweet Shop on either side.
She was cashing in her pension too, and along with the money her parents had left was extremely comfortable so intended to enjoy life. Margaret was going to travel, anywhere she fancied, city and spa breaks, Lanzarote… her list was extensive.
The elephant in the room had been Herbert because he wasn’t allowed outside the country, and probably wouldn’t make it past the twelve-month mark anyway. Margaret might as well have said ‘when you’re dead I’ll be off on my travels’. There was no need, though. Herbert knew exactly what she meant.
He really couldn’t get over this transformation and had he believed in aliens and zombie bodysnatchers, he’d have bet his savings that one or the other had nabbed the real Margaret and sent a raving lunatic in her place.
Ascending the stairs slowly because he was incredibly weary, Herbert held on tight to the banister and heaved himself forwards. A few minutes’ rest was in order after his chores and then he fancied perusing his mementos that were now arranged in his room. The spare bedroom had become his own little haven, and a hell of a lot better than the places the regular cons had described.
Despite living with what could be described as a schizophrenic ex-Stepford wife, Herbert remained adamant that it was better than being dumped in a hostel. It had crossed his mind to go for the city-centre luxury hotel and all the trimmings option, but in sleepy Elkdale you didn’t have to contend with CCTV watching your every move. All said and done, he would make do and mend.
Yes, Margaret had been tactful in her explanation and laying down of the law, but he was used to rules so three meals a day plus snacks and a leg-over whenever he was up to it, seemed a fair trade-off.
In return he would contribute financially to the running of the household and do his fair share of the chores while she was off out rearranging her life and wreaking revenge on anyone who had pissed her off. Poor sods. His current situation would do him just fine until he met his maker, or Diablo, whichever direction he went after he took his last breath.
Finally reaching the landing, Herbert pushed open the door of his room and once inside flopped onto the bed, relishing the softness of the mattress and freshly laundered sheets. He had felt a glimmer of sorrow for Margaret when she told him how she felt. To be fair she’d been loyal and patient. But this glimmer was swiftly extinguished by her Jekyll and Hyde routine.
It was surprising really, how one could adapt. Being in prison for fourteen years had been downright hideous but it had given Herbert various life skills. And going by the way his loving partner, insatiable lover, over-bearing landlady, wannabe village diva and born-again nutcase was behaving he would need them all.
Herbert was sick of thinking about Margaret so decided to peruse his trophies. They’d take his mind off her. He’d missed them while he was inside. Pushing himself upright he went over to the desk that held his most treasured worldly goods and removed the polished walnut box. Settling back on the bed, he made himself comfy before flicking the copper clasps, then he lifted the lid and with great reverence, removed the contents one by one.
The crescent-shaped ice pick was first. Herbert ran his fingers over the forged stainless-steel head, admiring the point and then the blunt flat butt, then down along the smooth wooden shaft carved from ash. His trusted tool had come in handy on many occasions. Next, he placed his compass and maps on the desk, then his tatty notebook, secured by an elastic band which he pinged off. Opening the pages, Herbert scanned the pencilled jottings, musings about his walks, weather on the day, miles covered, the best places to stop for a break and a list of neatly noted co-ordinates.
The Ordnance Survey map of the peak district was marked with circles that tracked all of his hikes, The Dunne Trail as he fondly thought of it. He carefully unfolded the sections, allowing the manila envelope contained within to drop onto the table. This was Herbert’s most favourite treasure, his best trophy. Pulling open the flap, he then slid out the newspaper cuttings hidden inside. His heart raced. He was just about to unfold them when he heard the front door slam and Margaret calling his name.
Sighing, Herbert replaced them and then the envelope, meticulously refolding his map before slipping it amongst the others. His reminiscing would keep; but in the meantime, maybe tonight after a glass of port laced with a crushed painkiller, Margaret would sleep soundly and he could take another trip into the village.
It had been easy the first time. Using her electric bicycle was a doddle, very quiet and it saved him getting out of puff. The back roads in the early hours were deserted and once he’d hidden the bike, Herbert enjoyed sneaking about in the shadows, on the lookout for an opportunity.
It was settled. He would go downstairs, play house and later, once his loyal alibi and sleeping-schizo was out for the count, it was time to have some fun. And Herbert knew exactly who he wanted to play with first.
13
Why she felt nervous Frankie had no idea. It was a good kind of nervous, though, the type you have when something exciting was going to happen and today was one of those days. The drive down from St Malo seemed to drag even though it took less than two hours, such was her eagerness to get there, to her new home. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day: twenty-eightdegrees, blue skies on which hovered a bright yellow orb, and a gentle breeze to take the edge off the heat. She was dressed in denim shorts and a T-shirt, her hair scraped into a ponytail, make-up free and loving it.
Her little Fiat was loaded up with a camp bed, enough dog paraphernalia to start her own pet shop, and the last of her personal belongings from the flat, the bare essentials to see her through the next twenty-four hours until the removal truck arrived. A kettle, a carton of milk, a jar of coffee, teabags, a mug and a huge packet of chocolate digestives. What more could a girl want? English essentials, that’s what! Yes, Frankie was happy to leave Blighty behind but not her favourite food so she’d stocked up on HP Sauce, mustard, peanut butter, baked beans, and a freezer box containing sausages and bacon for when Team White arrived to fix her house. There was also a carrier bag of the things that Christalle had asked for.
