Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

Annabelle's little car was on her drive as I reversed in behind it. I'd been home and shaved. I was going to change my clothes but decided not to. What you see is what you get. I switched off the engine, pulled the brake on and left the gear in neutral. It was ready for a smooth, unhurried getaway.

I pushed the doorbell, but didn't go in.

"Hello, Charles," she said, softly, when she saw me standing there. "I thought I heard a car. I wasn't expecting you."

"I won't keep you long," I said, following her in. She sat at one end of the settee, but I stayed on my feet. "About the note I left," I said.

She was wearing grey trousers in a silky material, with an emerald green blouse outside them. Her face looked pale against the bright green. "I… I was going to ring you," she began. "I don't know what to say…"

"I'll make it easy for you," I told her. "The note is withdrawn. I rang your hotel last night and left a message. Did you receive it?"

"A message? No. I received no message. What did you say?"

"I said I was coming down to the Post Chase, to take you to dinner."

She swallowed and looked shaken. "I was asking for you at the desk when Audish walked in. I saw you with him, Annabelle. I saw you kiss each other. I saw the way you tilted your head as you spoke to him, and watched the swing of your skirt as you walked away from me."

Her eyes were filling with tears. "I've got to say this," I went on, 'although I know the answer. We could start again. We had something special, Annabelle. You don't throw that away lightly. I don't know anything about Audish, except one thing: he's not for you." I left it at that. Slagging him off would be counter productive. "Come with me," I begged. "Now."

Tears were running down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them away with her fingertips. "I didn't want to hurt you, Charles," she sobbed.

"You've been so good to me. I didn't know what to do."

"I thought you loved me."

"I did love you. I still do."

"So come with me."

She shook her head.

"You love Audish more?"

"Yes," she sobbed.

"Right," I said. "Right. You can keep my things. Take them to the Oxfam shop, if you still remember where it is." At the door I turned back to her. "I always knew I'd lose you, Annabelle," I told her.

"Deep down, I knew that one day you'd hurt me, that I could never hold on to you. But I thought it would be the kind of hurt I'd cherish for the rest of my life. I thought you'd be in Africa or India or somewhere, maybe married again, but we'd always be friends. I'd get a card from you, at Christmas; that sort of thing. I knew you'd hurt me;

I never dreamed you'd… you'd… do this to me." I never dreamed you'd disappoint me. That's what I nearly said.

I opened the door. "You know where to find me," I told her. "But I won't be waiting."

I'd run out of things to do, places to go, dogs to kick. You can only drive up on to the tops so many times to watch the lights in the valley until they blur together in a yellow swamp. I was a big boy, now. I tuned-in to the country music station, because I can't stand country-fucking-music, and drove home.

The postman had been. Lying on my doormat was an envelope with a window, postmark and style of typing that told me exactly from where it came. It was the same as the ones my monthly salary statements come in, except the next one wasn't due for another three weeks. That was quick, I thought. Pay section had been on the ball, for once. Maybe they wanted rid of me. I put the envelope on the telephone table, unopened. If I didn't open it I could always swear I hadn't received it.

I love my shower. When I'm lost for something to do, or have twenty minutes to spare, or people in the office start giving me sideways glances and moving away, I have a shower. I do some of my best thinking with the hot jets impinging on my back and soap running into my eyes. Annabelle had given me some smelly stuff for my birthday. I finished it off with a lavish portion that had the plug hole struggling to cope with the foam. Tonight I'd smell nice, for nobody in particular, and one reminder of her would be consigned to the bin.

I pushed my thought processes in other directions. Rodney would be in a drugged sleep. Maybe he was the lucky one. I turned the temperature control up a few degrees and rinsed my hair. It was now too hot, but I left it at that. Tomorrow we'd have to start looking at the abortions, all five thousand of them. Most of the shampoo suds had gone. I slicked my hair back with my hands and turned my face into the hot jets. If there really was a gene for homosexuality, like the scientist in California was claiming the so-called gay gene surely they would all have died out by now, wouldn't they? I opened my mouth and let it fill with water, struggling to inhale through the storm. Autoerotic asphyxiation, that's what the MP died of, with his head in the plastic bag. They say it increases the intensity of the orgasm. I tipped my head forward so the water ran from my mouth, grabbed a breath and looked back into the spray. I reached up and swung the shower head to one side, keeping my face directly under it, and leaned back against the tiled wall. And I made a discovery.

They were gathered around Sparky like the apostles around Jesus, expressions of beatitude on their upturned faces. I'd been up to see Mr. Wood to tell him what he didn't want to know that we were roughly in the same place in our enquiry as we were when Dr. Jordan's body was found. I didn't mention the rape and he didn't ask, and I certainly didn't tell him about my revelation in the shower. He wasn't ready for that, yet.

Sparky was in full flow: '… and the French television reporter looked at them and said: "Wait a minute, wait a minute…"

"Un moment! Un moment!" Jeff Caton interrupted, one hand raised with the fingertips together, as if plucking a grape.

"I'm translating for Nigel's benefit," Sparky told him.

"Oh, sorry."

"That's all right. So this Frog reporter says: "Wait a minute. You don't like our wine. You don't like our food. You don't like our ladies. So just why do you keep coming back to France all these times?" And the Siamese twin on the left says: "It's the only chance I get to drive."

They drifted away, morale boosted, back to the tedium of reports and observations and the frustrations of court. Nigel and Sparky stayed behind. them at half Sparky "Where's Maggie?" I asked.

"She went straight to the clinic," Nigel said. "Wanted to collar Barraclough before the daily grind of executive meetings started. I've told her I'll join her, soon as I can, if you don't need me."

"Fair enough."

"There's a package on your desk," Sparky informed me. "Special delivery from Wetherton. A hell's angel from traffic brought it a few minutes ago."

"That was quick," I said. "I only rang past seven."

"You could tell he was happy at his work," declared.

"Who?"

"The biker."

"How?"

"He had dead flies on his teeth. What's in it?"

"In January? It's just a little something I wanted to borrow," I replied. "I'll tell you all about it when I've had a think. Meanwhile … I'm going to set you some homework."

"This sounds omnibus, Nigel," Sparky complained.

"It does, doesn't it?" he replied.

"Nigel, are you still going out with that red-headed WPC from City?" I asked. He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short. "On second thoughts," I said, 'are you going out with anyone?"

"Er, sort of," he answered.

"Right," I said, turning to Sparky. "And you're still in a blissful relationship, I presume?"

"Ye-es," he replied, cagily.

"OK, here's what I want. Tonight you will both make love to your respective partners in the shower, and be prepared to discuss same tomorrow. Understood?"