Despite her curiosity, she definitely wouldn’t be venturing into his private life again. His wife with dementia was something he obviously hadn’t meant to share. She could relate to that; she didn’t like to talk about her mother’s alcoholism and diabetes if she could avoid it. Still it was weird; he must have married someone way older than he was. But now she wondered who the clothes in the wardrobe belonged to. If he wasn’t gay, it seemed unusual that he would have another man’s trousers, jumpers and shoes in amongst his own clothes.
Sinead swung her plaster-encased leg over the side of the bed, swivelled around on her bum and dropped her other foot down to the carpet. She was starting to get the hang of manoeuvring around; her movements were getting quicker and she was automatically compensating with the rest of her body. Pushing herself off the mattress and grabbing the first crutch next to the headboard, she balanced her weight and then took the second one. Getting over to the chair, picking up the power cord, and returning to the bed took about a minute and a half. Not too bad, but it wouldn’t be fast enough if a fire broke out while she was sleeping. She really hoped Elliot wouldn’t be smoking any more of those rancid cigars.
24
Miles squeezed the bottle of body wash, depositing thick green gel into his palm. As water sprayed from the showerhead, he lathered up and began cleansing his chest and armpits. His best thinking was always done in the shower. And there was certainly a lot to think about.
Yesterday’s high hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. The Catford outing had been utterly exhilarating and he longed to recount the details to Sinead: his private viewing of her old home, the silent tread of his new Nike Ultras, planting the knickers in Imogen’s room and, of course, the highlight – his sparing of Maggie’s life. And some pertinent embellishments to spice up the story, like finding Imogen’s diary – full of jealousy and hatred towards Sinead – or Maggie borrowing conditioner from Imogen’s room while he was hidden behind the door. The story was so entertaining; it demanded to be told many times.
But he’d kept quiet because Sinead’s friendship remained uncertain; her reaction unpredictable. For all of Sinead’s many qualities and his feelings of amity towards her, a barrier was still in place, preventing them from enjoying a genuine intimacy. Now he’d arranged an ideal scenario for Sinead to prove her worthiness. He wondered if Imogen had found Sinead’s knickers, and wished he could be a fly on the wall to witness the repercussions. Upon discovering Joel’s infidelity, Imogen would surely kick him out of the house; Joel would require a port in the storm and Sinead would lure him over to the bungalow. Once they had him trapped inside, Miles could then determine if she was indeed deserving of his time and attention. He’d cleared the path, but it was up to Sinead to deliver the goods.
He rinsed the soapy foam from his body, turned off the taps and grabbed his towel from the heated rail. Dripping with water, Miles stepped out onto the tiled floor. Steam had fogged up the bathroom; he wiped away a section of mirror and stared at his reflection while towel-drying his upper body.
Apart from the thinning hair and the acne scars, he was pleased with his appearance. Five foot nine and solidly built; his shoulders and arms were muscular, ideal for rugby and for choking neck holds. He hadn’t been blessed with the eye-catching good looks seen on barber shop walls. No one had ever checked him out, as Sinead might say. But he had a homely, regular countenance with even features and pale grey eyes. Following the typical adolescent concerns, he had grown to appreciate his ordinariness, his everyman appeal. In fact, it had become his superpower: he was just a regular chap, a face you’d never pick out of a crowd.
The only person who had ever picked him out of a crowd was asleep next door.
He slipped on a new mauve J.Crew polo shirt then sat on the edge of the bed and wrestled with his black and red check-patterned socks. Another empty day loomed ahead and he felt the irritation like eczema he couldn’t scratch. The trip to Sinead’s old home was only a taster, a sample of what he truly desired. He needed some real action and soon; the urge could not be denied for much longer. Miles went over to the chest of drawers and took out keys from the hip pocket of his beige Gap chinos. He unlocked the middle drawer and pulled it out towards him.
Moving aside the garrotte, the rolls of duct tape and the handcuffs, he picked up the acrylic money belt. He unzipped it, extracted Sinead’s remaining rent money and counted the notes, mostly twenties and some fifties. The total came to £540. Assuming he’d miscounted, Miles gave it another go, but got the same result. It was not even close to the £800 he’d been expecting. Where had it all gone? He gave it some thought. In just a few weeks he’d spent £1,260 on new clothes, petrol, a hacksaw, trainers, food, drink and groceries. The car was due its MOT next month. Budgeting had never been his strong suit. If he didn’t find a job soon he’d be up shit creek again. His sojourn in Beckenham couldn’t last much longer. He needed to come up with a plan. Miles peeled off several notes and pocketed them before returning the money belt to the drawer and locking it.
After a breakfast of mackerel followed by an overripe banana, Miles fired up his laptop and surfed the net while drinking his milky tea. It was not long before he stumbled upon the second disturbance of the day and then immediately knocked over his mug. Hidden away in the bottom right-hand corner of The Telegraph’s home page, he had initially skimmed over the headline before instinctively clicking back to it from the Sports section: Human Jawbone Discovered in Epping Forest.
He abandoned the rest of his mug of tea in the sink and mopped up the spillage before reading the eight-line article. The bone had been dug up by a dog, of course: Monty’s ghost exacting its revenge. The police were conducting a search of the surrounding area and a forensic pathology team were examining the bone, which still had decomposing flesh attached to it. He regretted not buying acid when he’d had the chance. But these days shopkeepers were nosey about whom they sold corrosive substances to; they asked questions and kept records of such customers.
Hearing the thump-creak-thump of Sinead moving down the corridor, Miles skimmed the report’s last line and navigated back to the Sports section. The crucial question was, did the jawbone belong to Vincent or Elliot? He would have to wait until the police released more information.
The door swung open and Sinead clunked into the room. He tried concentrating on the pundit’s predictions for the upcoming test match, but none of it sunk in.
‘There’s some post for you.’ She threw an envelope onto the table. ‘Nothing for me, as usual.’
He ignored her, trying to make it obvious that he was engrossed in reading and not available for small talk.
‘What you up to, then?’ Sinead asked.
‘Just business.’
‘What is it you do again? I can’t remember if you told me.’
Momentarily his eyes flicked away from the screen. What did he tell her? ‘I’m actually quite busy so…’ He furrowed his brow and stared intently at the screen.
‘What’s happening with the water? Are we in trouble?’
The question was so left field that he was forced to look at her. Sinead had a lopsided grin, as though she was making a joke, but not really.