No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [43]
“Weird,” Penny said.
“What do we know about him anyway? He could be a psycho killer.”
“Psycho killers don’t usually look like movie stars,” Penny said, and returned to stirring her coffee.
“I don’t know – Ted Bundy wasn’t bad.”
“He was the one with the gold VW Beetle?”
Mary nodded.
“Yeah, OK, he was all right. Not worth dying for, though.”
“My point exactly,” Mary said. She took Penny’s spoon away from her and threw it into the sink. “It’s stirred.”
Penny was glad her friend had stayed, and their idle chat had lightened her mood, but eventually she was happy to see her go. She waved her off and closed the door. Then she went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She thought about it for a moment and put it back. She had promised herself she would take it easy, so instead she reached for a bottle of white wine. She spent a minute or two looking for the corkscrew, which stubbornly refused to be found. Fuck it, she thought. She opened the fridge and grabbed the vodka. Fate has spoken.
Once seated, she poured a tall glass, took her first sip and switched on the TV. I could have sworn this bottle was more than half full.
Mary parked outside her house, content that she had left Penny in lighter spirits than she had found her. The blue sky was fading to light purple and the water was still, reflecting the two upturned half-moons of the imposing bridge under which the river Roughty joined with the Sheen. Inside, she made her way to the back yard to alert Mr Monkels to her homecoming. Usually he would sense her from halfway down the road or he’d hear the car engine – either way he’d be sitting at the glass patio door panting hello. He wasn’t at the door. Instead he was lying flat out on the ground in front of the shed, half concealed by an untamed bush.
“Mr Monkels!” she called. “Mr Monkels?”
She picked up her pace and her heart started to beat in time with her feet. She bent down to him and it was clear that he was breathing but he wouldn’t budge. She stroked him and he whined a little. “OK, buddy,” she said calmly, “everything’s going to be OK.” She tried to lift him but he groaned and she knew he was too heavy for her to carry without fear of dropping him. She could hear that the American was in because the sound of gospel queen Mavis Staples was leaking from his kitchen. What is it with that man and gospel? She wasn’t going to ask him for help so instead she ran to number three, hoping against hope that Mossy would be there. He opened the door with his hands caked in clay and a joint hanging from his lips.
“Mary of the Sorrows, always a sight for sore eyes,” he said, wiping his hands with a tea-towel. He seemed unaware that he had referred to her by her nickname.
“I need your help,” she said, although from the size of his pupils she was in no doubt that he was pretty stoned.
He stood over a table on which lay a piece he was working on. “What do you think?” he asked.
It looks like a brown banana – that or a piece of… “Lovely,” she said. “There’s something wrong with Mr Monkels. Can you help me get him into the car?”
“Oh, sorry, Mare, I can’t,” he said.
“What?” she replied, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
“I’m out of my gicker.” He giggled. “Seriously, I’ve got this new stuff and it’s off the wall but really getting the inspiration juices flowing.”
She took a second look at the piece of crap on the table. “Yeah,” she nodded, “thanks anyway.”
“Ask the American,” Mossy advised her. “He seems like a very accommodating fella.”
She was stuck. Mrs Foley in number five had difficulty carrying a cup of tea, never mind a large dog, and she couldn’t waste any more time. She knocked on her new neighbour’s door.
Moments later he opened it. “Can I help you?” he asked, appearing nonchalant.
“I’d really appreciate it if you could,” she responded, careful to mind her manners. I don’t have time for a hissy fit.
“What is it?” he asked, delighting in this unexpected power.
“My dog. He’s not well. I need help lifting him to the