A Trick I Learned From Dead Men (14 page)

We have been reassured that each of us will be considered for employment by Greenacre, to which Derek answered, Do they think we were born yesterday? To which the Greenacre rep did not reply. The silence made everyone blink.

We are not fools, Howard says, after the rep has gone. We know where we stand, he says. We have begun to walk and talk like actors in a spaghetti western. We know
exactly
where we stand – in the past. Life has changed. So has death. We are the future unemployed and we know it. C’est la vie.

When tea is ready I bang the handle of the long mop on the ceiling. Ned feels the vibration and comes down. I stand for a moment to take in all the mop bang marks on the ceiling from other teas Ned has come down for. I wonder how many teas we have had, in total. Maybe one day tour parties will stand on this very spot. Like the Pyramids, this house will stand as a monument. Yes, and the tour guide will say, If you look directly up you can in fact see the marks on the ceiling made by the young Lee Hart as he beckoned his deaf brother down for tea. He won’t come down of course. Not till it’s cold.

She picked him to love most because he was the weak one. I don’t blame her, women have a soft spot for the runt. Our mum was a bedazzled woman but Ned threw it all away. Who knows why? No point asking. Being deaf was not the problem. Being deaf was his brilliance, his proudest moment. He lost his flair after she died. I knew he’d flake, she didn’t.

These days I am happier at work. The living and the dead get along famously. Job done. Clear cut as. Currently we are riding a wave of optimism due to a rumour that suggests we will all be retained by Greenacre at this outlet
for
the time being. Nothing to fret about. No ghosts, none, they all live at home.

*

M
RS
D
ELANEY’S DAUGHTER
has arranged for her mother to be buried with her mobile phone switched on. Everyone gathers in the office to discuss it. This is something new for Shakespeare’s. I abandon the boiling kettle to join the debate. We speak over each other.

It’s good to talk, says Derek. Everyone laughs. He got that off the BT ad. Nice.

Connecting people, I say. Like off the Nokia ad. No one seems to know that one. I say it again. I have boiled the kettle three times now due to the excitement.

Howard, on the other hand, takes his time, speaks slowly, smiles serenely, as if he buries ringing phones with clients every single week. I thought everyone knew the Nokia ad.

Me personally, the last thing I’d want in my coffin is the phone going off.
Rest In Peace
it says on her plate, talk about mixed messages. I’ve never myself heard of a phone actually going off, though now and then you’ll hear it on the grapevine.

Nice family. They all walk the same, head pitched forward, like a family of egrets. Mrs Angelou, the daughter, talks
softly
, dips her head to listen. It’s infectious. Now we’re all doing it, creeping about whispering, dipping, bobbing. Even Derek. Spread like wildfire. Mental. Howard and Derek in particular are under Mrs Angelou’s spell. I am hanging back in the shadows, the corridors are congested as it is.

The only time Derek took longer over a prep was with the fiancé policeman, who drowned himself last year after getting dumped on his wedding eve.

True, Mrs Angelou is a looker. Irene put her finger on it. There at her desk, she bursts out: You men are so predictable!

There is no answer to that. Irene is right. In spite of this or maybe because of it, me, Derek and Howard categorically deny it there and then: We’re not all alike you know. Tarred with the same brush. One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole bunch.

Irene is silenced. No one said life was fair, only short.

Derek has gone all out on Mrs Delaney, the mother. I took a peek on my return from a two o’clocker. Smart. All in black, hands clasped, rosary draped. Derek has covered his tracks. Plenty of stuffing at the elbows and her hands have come together, natural as. A bit of smoke and mirrors. No other way, dead hands don’t clasp.

A picture, I say to Derek.

I thang you.

Busy with the cheek pads? I say.

He puts his hands on his hips, turns in his knee, like he might dance.

Anything else? he asks.

I take a look. Colour in her cheeks. Sheen on her hair. Lipstick: Blushing Bride I’d hazard. Skin tone. Eye sockets. We step back for a moment to take her all in. There’s trickery here, but nothing unusual leaps out. Whatever he’s done he’s done well.

What, no telling? I say.

Nothing to tell, he says. If you can’t see it it ain’t there. He winks. Know what I mean, Lee?

Mrs Angelou will dip her head and thank Derek in her softly softly voice and Derek will dip his head in return and take her hand and look in her eyes, but his lips will remain sealed.

I write down the personal effects in the big book: Leather Bible, St Joseph Daily Prayer Book, an image of the Holy Virgin, three photographic portraits and a Motorola V6. Charged.

I’ve got a Samsung, but not the Galaxy S. Without Ned I’d have an iPhone by now. No point craving what you haven’t got.

When Mrs Delaney is finally laid to rest, there will doubtless be a chirrup below ground to wake her. The electronic words will lie with Mrs Delaney until the end
of
time. Or at least till the battery goes. God keep you. We love you. We are with you, now and always.

I’m no philosopher but. Some things show their colours no matter what. I stand on the landing, taking in the moonlight on the field: clouds parted, crop shining – like Jesus might stroll on and speak – tell me what to do, like he does in his films.

Jesus, how long till (a) I get a table for two at Il Terrazzo? (b) A position at Greenacre? (c) A life without my brother? He wouldn’t answer of course. More important things than.

In my game you wonder what will it say on your stone when you cop it. Whether you will get flowers, what they will say. I hope I get Lorelle’s writing on the card:
You crack me up, Lee. He he. Gotta rush. R.I.P
. I don’t stand there dwelling long.

I missed her yesterday, we were at a burial up the B2036. Second time this week I missed her. I find my phone.

Hav u hurd we r 4 the chop? c’est la vie. how r u? Lee.

I press send.

*

N
OT THAT
I’
M
religious but, if I was going to pray, I’d pray for Howard’s job. Reckon I’d be handy. Watch and learn, that’s me. When Lorelle is Mrs Hart we will run it together, two Harts are better than one. That’s my trajectory, career-wise. I’ve got nothing against Howard, obviously, but it’s dog eat dog in this world.

23

Some low cloud and mistiness, turning foggy later with drizzle possible

NED IS WATCHING
Dancing on Ice: The Dance Off
. He is chewing monkey nuts and dropping the shells where they fall. His foot is on the coffee table, inserted inside a bag of frozen sweetcorn. The night before last I returned from the pub to discover, in my absence, he had conducted an impromptu experiment that involved seeing how close his ski socks could get to the fire before they caught alight. Now he knows. Cheers, Ned. Home insurance policy anyone? Only one sock caught before the experiment was declared officially over.

You knob. I sign.

Knobs is us, he signs.

Mess, I sign him. Look.

Fuck you, thank you. He signs back, smiling.

Mess. You make pig. Clean.

He scoops a handful of shells and flings them in my direction. They roll and scatter; one bounces off my shoe.

Very good, Gog. Hoover Hoover.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a sense of humour same as the next man, but. He pushes his. He push push fucking pushes.

I thump him hard on the side of the head. He yells, thrashes.

Shells, nuts, ice, sweetcorn. Arrivederci todos. He’s on his feet. He throws his fists, one after the other, while I jag to the side. He misses, misses, misses.

Ha! Arsehole! Come on! Here we are at last, communicating. Come on! I sign. Come on! He comes. Lunging, flailing. I duck away, stamping shells, nuts, sweetcorn. I am quick as. I run rings round him. Where’d I go?

Missed!

I attack from behind. Wallop. Buenos dias!

He’s angry now. Gets me back with a chop to my arm. For
fucks
.

I grab his shirt, drag him across the room. We stagger, thumping, blocking, swinging. I land another: a mighty smack on the gob, a wild one. Knuckles on teeth. Crack. He goes down.

The pain hammers me into the floor. I double up. One knobhead, two knobhead, three. I reckon I might kick
him
as he lies there. I do. Free kick from the corner. Whap. He is silent, aka a foul. Penalty kick from the box. Don’t mind if I do. I swing a belter into his thigh.

There it is. Thin at first. Boo-hoo. A little girl’s noise. Little Bo Baa has lost her sheep. Sniff sniff. Same old. Same old. I slam the back door.

He is not of this world, never was. Touched by genius, she said. Trouble is some div’s got to clean up after. Same old div, as per. I am at the mast in seconds. I don’t stop. Glad there is a wind to walk against, it takes my breath away. Gracias. Walking walking. Where to? Nowhere, that’s where. Around in circles. Day after day after.

It was Ned who sprayed Lee Hart is a knobhead on the inside of the bus shelter. Cheers. He still thinks I don’t know. I didn’t at first. Never thought he had the initiative. Not just the bus shelter: a parking bay at the library, the wall by the Coinwash and a skip opposite the Somerfield car park. He carried on till he’d used up a whole can of blue paint.

Not everyone could handle it. Lucky I am the sort of person who can turn the other cheek.

When he tips backwards through his bedroom window, he’s only thinking of the buzz, like a kid. Not to begrudge him, I’m just saying. The trampoline always catches him,
but
one day. And whose fault will that be? Everything changes in the spring. It always does.

There is a note on the draining board.

Gog. How goes? Potatoes in the oven. Yum. Cheers! Ned.

I turn slowly, half expecting to find him on the ceiling. What’s he up to? What the. All the dishes are put away. The floor is clean. I move quickly through and find the lounge is tidy, spotless, Hoovered.

Ned?

I run upstairs. What the hell is going. The bedrooms are empty. I try the bathroom. He is lying in a full bath, no bubbles, one sponge.

Ned?

I wait. For whatever. Blood, electricity, monkey nuts. His hands come up talking from under the water.

Gog! How goes? Hungry? One minute. OK?

Drip drip drip.

I wait nervously downstairs. I try to think who he might have insulted, bothered, murdered. Whether the police have been round. What is missing, stolen, sold? Think. A clink of ice. I turn. Ned offers a tumbler of Lester’s old Jameson’s with ice. Service with a smile.

I take it.

Ta, his hand reminds me.

Ta, I sign. Cheers, mate.

Cheers! he signs. He breathes through his mouth, strolls across the rug, hands on his hips. I scan for more clues. His hair is combed into straight wet sections, his ears poke out. His skin, teeth, appear to be clean. Unusual. He looks carefully at me, winks, nods. What the. Drink drink, he signs. I wonder if it’s poisoned.

Good days, he signs.

Good days. Yeah.

Hungry?

He sprints for the kitchen. Something is seriously.

He lunges back in.

Welcome! Food is ready, he signs.

We eat together at the table. Nothing is wrong that I can tell, not yet, maybe not at all. He slurps, smacks, burps, as per. Grins at me. He touches my arm.

Why can’t it always be like this? he signs.

After dinner we watch the ten o’clock news. He is watching it for my sake. He’d rather watch
Britain’s Next Top Model
or
Tool Academy
, something with pretty girls.

Nighty night night, he signs at the end and disappears to bed.

Something is seriously up. I take the cushion, throw it in front of him. He turns.

What’s all this? I sign.

What?

You dinner cook, tidy, clean, weird.

So? What?

Why?

Never mind what what what. Say thank you, Ned. Ta. He drops his hands.

Ta, Ned, I sign. Very nice.

Very welcome, Gog. Night night.

I have been sitting with her while the sun goes down on the field. I cannot tell if she is here. You are supposed to tell, I think, if they are around. I can’t. I wait. I close my eyes. Nothing. I don’t say her name, no point.

I walk back. The air is purple, a spot of pink over the flyover. I check my latest text.

v sorry 2 hear ur news re work. c u l8er. L.

I stroll, thinking on. About Lorelle, about the timing of my next move. She seems genuinely concerned. A chill in the ground, in the air. The birds have roosted.

A clack. I stop. Another. Clack. Something hits the fence post. Dack. A stone. Like a stone. Now I know what it is. I know exactly. Might’ve known. Should’ve seen it coming. I run towards the house. The light is gone but I know my way.

Clack. Something hits the ground beside me. I zag to the side.

I see him now. He is aiming through my bedroom window. He must’ve clocked me there a hundred times. The landing light is on, so he’s backlit. Stupid arse. I see the .22 on his shoulder, his cheek on the stock, like he’s falling asleep. I run for the back door.

We sit at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil. The .22 on the table. I’m not in the mood for a fight.

I slapped him and then I thought, that’s it. I’m too tired.

Apologise you. Yes? Hello?

Very sorry, Gog. His hands drop, fold. The end.

I look at our reflection in the dark kitchen window. I see myself slumped. I see my head turn away, turn back to him.

You any thing say me? I sign.

Teach you me shoot?

The barrel of his finger points. His eyebrows are high. He looks hopeful. For fucks.