Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

‘But nothin’. If you think. . .’ She stared into the cubicle: the Sexy Sadie hotline was ringing. ‘Well, go on then, Tracy – show him what you’re made of!’

She does, making a big show of the striptease and self fondling. The man on the other end moans and groans and grunts his way to fifteen minutes forty-nine seconds, Tracy’s longest romantic encounter all night by a long shot. She hangs up and beams. Agnes gives her a round of applause.

Mr Aziz shrugs. ‘All right, all right. You can be Sexy Sadie for the rest of the night. Only put more moaning into it. The punters like a bit of moaning.’ Then he shuffles back to his copy of the Racing Post .

Tracy blinks back the tears. ‘Thanks, Agnes.’

‘Don’t mention it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some dodgy double glazin’ to sell.’

Now she’s learned the magic formula, there’s no stopping her. The next call lasts twenty minutes and the one after that a full twenty-five. Do this every night and their money worries would be over. Well, not over , but they’d be able to pay off the funeral.

Maybe Mr Aziz could put her on full time? She could be ‘Spanking Susan’, or ‘Horny Helen’, or ‘Lusty Laura’, or something. Have explicit postcards of her very own plastered over every telephone box in Oldcastle. Not that she’ll pose for the photo herself – it’ll be months before she loses the baby weight, and let’s face it, she was hardly skinny to start with – no she’d do the same as all the other women and let Mr Aziz pick one of his ‘nieces’ to model the thong and stilettos.

The next call is a funny one, and not funny ‘ha, ha’ either. It’s a woman with a growling, furious voice. ‘ I know what you are! I know what you are! ’ A nut job, phoning up to cause trouble, too stupid to realize that she’s getting charged for every second the call lasts, just like the men who want someone to talk filthy to them. ‘ And I know where you are! ’

Tracy blinks. ‘Excuse me?’

‘ You heard! I ’ ve got a friend in the police: they traced the number. I know where you are, whore! You ’ re a shit stain on the human race, you hear me WHORE? ’ There’s more, but Tracy doesn’t listen to it, just kills the line and sits back shaking.

The phone goes again and she jumps, letting out a little shriek. No one notices: shrieks and moans are par for the course around here.

There’s silence from the other end of the phone and then, ‘ Is that Sadie? ’ A man’s voice; not the mad harpy again. Thank God for that.

Maybe she should try out her new persona: Dirty Debbie?

No, better save it until she’s got her own kinky postcards. Start to build a clientele.

‘You better believe it.’ She goes for deep and sultry, but it comes out sounding a bit blocked up instead. ‘Do you like dirty girls?’

‘ You don ’ t sound like Sadie. . . I want to speak to Sadie. ’ There’s something familiar about his voice, but Tracy can’t quite place it.

‘I told you: I’m Sadie. If you’re going to be naughty I’ll have to spank you!’

‘ I don’t. . . ’ Another pause: he’s thinking about it. He has to be one of Agnes’s regulars, or he wouldn’t know what the real Sadie sounds like. ‘ I suppose I have been naughty. ’

‘Hmmm, well I think we’ll have to do something about that. Won’t we?’ She launches into her routine, doing the undressing thing while he whimpers and groans on the other end of the phone.

Where the hell does she know his voice from? It’s so bloody familiar. . .

Then he says, ‘ Naughty! I ’ m a naughty boy! Spank me! ’ and she knows. Oh God!

She punches the button and hangs up on him. The stopwatch has the call at a little under five minutes. She sits staring at the phone. It starts to ring again.

Go away, go away, go away!

Fifteen rings later, and Agnes is hanging over the side of the cubicle. ‘Are you feeling all right, dear?’ The phone keeps ringing. ‘Is it the baby? Have you got your contractions?’

Tracy drags her eyes from the phone and looks up at her. ‘No. . . Please, can. . . I can’t . . . it’s. . .’ She pulls her headset off and backs away from the cubicle. Her stomach churns – like morning sickness all over again.

Agnes hurries around and takes the call, telling the man on the other end what he wants to hear.

It’s stupid. She’s imagining it. A lot of people sound the same over the phone – especially when they’ve got an Oldcastle accent.

Agnes moans and groans her way to a climax. Only takes ten minutes, she must be worried to end it so quickly. She disconnects the call. ‘What is it Tracy? You can tell me: what is it?’

She points at the phone and says, ‘I . . . I thought it was. . .’ She blushes, picks at a button on her maternity dress. ‘Never mind.’

Agnes grins. ‘I know what you mean. First couple of months I was sure I was speaking to my neighbour, milkman, the boy who works at the bingo hall on Thursdays. . . In the end I just decided, ‘so what?’ They don’t know I’m Sexy Sadie: doesn’t matter if I recognize them, does it? It’s all just make-believe.’ Agnes gets up, then pats the vacant seat. ‘Come on. Sooner you get back on the horse, the sooner you’re earning again.’

Tracy nods. It’s stupid.

She settles back into the seat.

Agnes hands her the headset. ‘That was one of my biggest fans. Calls at least twice a week, poor soul. Wife won’t let him touch her. If it wasn’t for me, I don’t know what he’d do.’

Tracy manages a sickly smile and doesn’t tell Agnes why she thinks she knows the voice. Nor does she dial 1471 to find the number he phoned from. She just sits and stares at the phone, willing it to ring again and erase the last Caller ID record.

It was stupid. It wasn’t him. Her dad wouldn’t ring a sex line to masturbate down the phone at her, not while Mum’s lying in a coffin at the funeral director’s.

The phone rings and she nearly screams. With trembling fingers she puts on the headset, takes three deep breaths, and picks up the call.

Maybe selling double glazing isn’t such a bad job after all.

There is never a good time to look upon the face of a dead loved one. This is something Mr Unwin understands all too well, because he sees it every day.

Mrs Riley is the latest addition to his world: the world of mahogany caskets and heavy velvet curtains: of subdued lighting and soothing classical music. And the calming smell of lavender, to cover anything ‘unpleasant’ coming from the dearly departed.

Mrs Riley cries and cries and cries, while Mr Riley does his best to comfort his heavily pregnant wife. She is distraught: she has lost her mother. He is stoic: he has lost his mother-in-law, which is not the same thing at all. And little Chloe – who has lost her grandmother – seems completely unconcerned. She sits on the carpet by the casket, pulling the petals off a white carnation and sticking them up her nose.

And all the time Mr Unwin stands in silence by the door of the small room, hands folded in front of him, waiting for the family to finish. Patience is a virtue. The dead will not be rushed.

Finally Mrs Riley cries herself to a shuddering standstill and her husband leads her from the chapel of rest, taking little Chloe with them. ‘Thanks.’ He places a hand on Mr Unwin’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job. She looks so. . .’ He casts a glance back at the open coffin. ‘So peaceful.’

Mr Unwin nods. ‘I’m glad we could help.’ And shows them to the door.