Anya Lipska - Death Can’t Take a Joke

‘God only knows. She can’t even plan it until they’ve done the post-mortem,’ said Janusz.

Oskar mimed an elaborate shiver. ‘I tell you something, Janek,’ he said. ‘If I die, don’t you let those kanibale loose on me with their scalpels.’ As the light changed to green, he pulled away. ‘And don’t forget what I told you – about putting a charged mobile in my coffin? They’re always burying people who aren’t actually dead.’

Janusz refrained from pointing out that a post-mortem might be the only sure-fire way of avoiding such a fate. He and Oskar had been best mates since they’d met on their first day of national service back in eighties Poland, but he’d learned one thing long ago: trying to have a logical discussion with him was like trying to herd chickens.

‘Remember that time, years back, when Jim took us to see the doggies racing each other at Walthamstow? Oskar chuckled. ‘ Kurwa! That was a good night.’

‘I remember,’ Janusz grinned. ‘You got so legless that you kept trying to place a bet on the electric rabbit.’

‘Bullshit! I don’t remember that.’

‘I swear. If Jim hadn’t been watching your back, one of those bookies would have swung for you.’

They fell silent, smiling at their own memories.

‘So, Janek. How are you going to track down the skurwysyny who murdered him?’

‘That’s why I wanted to see you,’ said Janusz, tapping some cigar ash out of his window. ‘Walthamstow is more your patch than mine so I thought you could do some sniffing around for me – find out if anyone knows this girl, Varenka, or the chuj who likes to use her as a punchbag.’ He pointed his cigar at his mate ‘But keep it discreet, okay, and don’t mention Jim, obviously.’

‘No problem!’ said Oskar, his expression eager. ‘I’ll start asking around right away. We’ll be like Cagney and Lacey!’

‘Except they were girls, idiota ,’ said Janusz. ‘Which reminds me, ladyboy – how is the “landscape gardening” going?’

‘I’m making a mint, Janek,’ Oskar declared, rubbing his fingers together. ‘You should’ve come in with me when I gave you the chance.’

‘So you’re saying these people out in Essex pay you thousands of pounds to muck around with their gardens?’ Janusz made no attempt to keep the incredulity from his voice.

‘Why wouldn’t they? I was in charge of building half the Olympic Park!’ he said, striking his chest.

‘Yeah, but construction isn’t the same thing as landscaping,’ said Janusz. ‘You wouldn’t know a begonia from a bramble patch!’

Oskar waved a dismissive hand. ‘I get all the green stuff down B&Q,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I see my role as creating the architectural framework.’

Janusz grinned. ‘Let me guess. They think they’re getting Monty Don and they end up with paving as far as the eye can see?’

Oskar shrugged. ‘Some people have no vision, Janek. I tell them, once the bushes and shit have grown up a bit, it’ll look fine.’

The unmistakable tones of Homer Simpson singing ‘Spider Pig’ filled the van – Oskar’s latest irritating ringtone.

‘Hello, lady,’ said Oskar into the phone. ‘Yes, I’m on my way to your place right now.’ He used his free hand to change gear, steering the van meanwhile with his knees. ‘I didn’t forget. A classical statue for the water feature.’ Turning to Janusz, Oskar winked. ‘You’re going to love the one I picked out for you. See you soon.’

Throwing the mobile back into the tide of debris washed up on the dashboard, Oskar said: ‘Once I drop this stuff off at Buckhurst Hill, we can head straight back to Walthamstow and start our investigation!’

Things didn’t work out quite so simply. After they parked up on the broad gravel forecourt of a hacienda-style detached house, Janusz stayed in the van while Oskar unloaded and took the stuff round to the back garden. Even from this distance, he was able to ascertain from the pitch of the conversation that the lady of the house wasn’t entirely happy.

After a good ten minutes, he heard Oskar crunching back across the gravel. A moment later he opened the driver’s side door and started to push a large sculpture of some kind up onto the seat, with much huffing and puffing.

‘Give me a hand, Janek!’

‘Can’t you put it in the back?’

‘This is easier.’

‘What the fuck is it meant to be anyway?’ asked Janusz once they’d manhandled the thing up onto the bench seat.

‘What does it look like?!’ Oskar’s tone was incredulous. ‘It’s a moo-eye, obviously.’ Hauling his chunky frame into the front seat, he slammed the van door and threaded the seat belt around their passenger.

Janusz peered at its profile. He could see now that it was a giant head – a clumsy reproduction of one of the monumental Easter Island sculptures, cast in a pale grey resin intended to resemble stone.

‘It’s moai , donkey-brain.’

‘Moo-eye – like I said!’ Oskar started the van. ‘She said she wanted something classical. How is a moo-eye not classical? They’re hundreds of thousands of years old!’ He shook his head. ‘ Now she tells me she meant a naked lady.’

As they got closer to Walthamstow the traffic slowed and thickened. The sight of the huge, implacable stone face gazing out through the windscreen of a scruffy Transit van started to draw disbelieving stares from passers-by and appreciative blasts on the horn from fellow motorists.

Oskar lapped up the attention, returning the toots and scattering thumbs-ups left and right, while Janusz sat in silence, one hand spread across his face. The last straw came when Oskar wound down his window to receive a high five from a passing bus driver.

‘Let me out, Oskar,’ he growled. ‘I can walk to the gym from here. And give me a call if you hear anything interesting.’

He found Jim’s Gym open for business and packed with clients squeezing in a lunchtime workout. The faces were all male and for the most part either black, or Asian and bearded. The iron filings smell of sweat and testosterone filled the air like an unsettling background hum. Seeing Janusz, one of the older black guys, a regular called Wayne who sometimes came to the pub, set down the weights he’d been hefting and headed over. Wiping the sweat from his palms onto a towel, he offered his hand.

‘Terrible news about Jim,’ he said, eyes sorrowful, seeking Janusz’s gaze. They shook hands and spoke briefly, before Janusz continued towards the little office at the rear, where he’d sometimes come to pick up Jim on the way to the boozer.

But as he reached for the door handle, he felt himself engulfed by a surge of grief so powerful he had to steady himself against the doorjamb. This had happened more than once since he’d identified Jim’s body, every time it hit him – the dizzying realisation that he would never again see his mate’s face, nor hear that big laugh.

Inside, he was confronted by the sight of the deputy manager, a young black guy called Andre, sprawled in Jim’s chair, behind Jim’s desk, chatting and laughing into a mobile phone. Bad timing. Two strides took Janusz across the room and before the guy could even get to his feet he found the phone slapped out of his hand and across the room.

‘What the fuck, bruv?!’

‘Show some respect,’ said Janusz. ‘Jim’s not even buried yet. And who said you could take his desk?’

Andre jutted his chin out. ‘And who’s you to tell me I can’t, old man?’

A grim smile tugged at the side of Janusz’s mouth. ‘Haven’t you heard? I’m the new owner.’ No need to tell the guy that he’d already instructed his solicitor to transfer ownership of the gym to Marika.