Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) (6 page)

She stopped her machine and picked up a leaf from a plane tree. It was huge, bigger than her two spread hands. Beautiful, green and yellow, with patches of rusty brown in the angular fingers. How could nature just throw this away?

Because Nature was a callous cow. Beauty didn’t matter a fig to her. Cry, plead – she will not hear. Rather, lay waste, burn those praying in the citadel, take no prisoners. Cut every throat until the river runs red and bodies block the channels.

She read too much post-apocalyptic crap. After the catastrophe, the marauding gangs, and so forth; they were all the same. Why should she be one of the select? Today she was the grim reaper’s slavey. As disposable as a soggy tissue.

Every living thing dies, she said again. The only way out is heaven – and she didn’t believe in it. But she must; it was her only hope. The religious live forever; atheists die. Permanently.

Maybe she should try a church. The Church of the Live Forevers. All she had to do was persuade herself to believe. Eternity was more than a good reason. In the end, it didn’t matter whether it was true or not, so long as you believed it. That made you happy. All she had to do was find a nice church. Not one of those heavy puritan churches that said no to everything, but one that let you get on with your life as you wanted to live it anyway. She’d have to see what was on the internet.

She was vaccing the edge, where the lawn met the shrubbery. Rose stopped and felt the leaf bag. Five minutes maybe and it’d be full. She’d like to empty it now, get a break from the noise and death images, take her time at the dump, but Ian had seen her at the leaf mould pound, emptying a less than full bag last time, and given her a tongue lash. Five minutes of belch and roar to endure.

She’d tried out music and headphones on Friday. Useless in this racket. She’d have to get those really expensive noise cancelling ones. Except it seemed like a sort of cowardice, a denial. Like spraying a manure heap with lavender. It was still there under the smell.

This would be her hell, the one in waiting for her. Like what’s-his-name with the big rock. She’d be given this massive vac, to suck in evildoers until the end of time. She’d empty the bag into a vast cauldron of boiling pitch, go back and find the path as full of sinners as it was before.

The machine was sucking just under a holly tree when she saw it. The leaves shot in to the machine, clearing a space, and there it was – a hand. She leaped back. Help! It was in her head, dead bodies – and there was one, or rather a bit of one, a hand and wrist. Rose turned off the machine. And bent down warily for a closer look. The hand was in a sleeve. So not just a cut off hand, a gangland job. It was attached to a body. What should she do?

She folded the hand back at the elbow so she couldn’t see it. Dead bodies are dead. She could just carry on, pretend she hadn’t seen it. And let some old woman with a dog snuffle it out. She turned on the vac and began sucking her way on, away from the holly and its secret.

And then stopped.

If she reported a dead body, she’d get a break. A good break, and a pat on the back. No one could tell her off for being a concerned, solid citizen and reporting an actual corpse in the park. And she’d have an exciting tale for a week. Guess what I found in the park? she’d tell her clubbers in the chill-out room. She’d leave out the leaf vaccing bit, but maybe not, they might find it suitably apocalyptic. Or she could make it sound like a blast. Being all on your own, with your thoughts, minding your own business, when a hand comes out of the leaves… Honest.

Better check first though. She turned off the vac and went back to the holly bush. Rose got down on her knees and looked under the canopy. And saw a grimy face looking back at her.

They stared at each other, it was difficult to say who was more surprised, the bleary, tousled head in the sleeping bag or the park worker who was thirty today. The head gave a half smile, almost toothless, breathing heavily.

Rose said, ‘I don’t care where you sleep, mister. It’s all the same to me. But if you don’t pull yourself in further someone will see you. And move you on. It’s up to you. I don’t care.’

The man put a dirty hand out to placate her, the nails bitten to the quick.

‘I’m ill, lady. I can’t get up. I need to get to hospital. Dicky ticker.’

Different situation. Something had to be done. When in doubt call Liz.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get someone. You’ll be alright.’

‘Thanks, lady.’

She nodded. She could be a frightfully selfish cow. But here was someone thanking her. She took his hand and squeezed it.

‘I’ll just leave you for a few minutes and be right back. OK?’

‘Thank you, lady.’

The man sank back as if the last few words had been effort enough. And he’d passed on responsibility to someone who wouldn’t let him down. Rose let go of the holly branch and came out into the open air. Not a dead body. No story to tell her mates of murder and drugs wars. But someone alive, who couldn’t afford to rent a room and was ill. Something she understood all too well in this town with sky high rents.

She headed for Liz’s greenhouse.

Chapter 8

He was getting into a rhythm. Pick up a brick, chip off mortar, clip, clip, clip, each face, put it on the pile, take up another. Jack had taken out another two courses of bricks – and so had a longish task of brick cleaning. His hands seemed to be working almost without him. The left held the brick, the right the axe; almost like robots on an assembly line, programmed for one job. Clip, clip, clip, on the heap, pick up another. The heap was building up. Mind you, he wouldn’t want to do this for too long, the wrist of his right hand, the one holding the axe, was getting sore. What did they call it? RSI. He’d get that alright if he did this day in, day out. There must be a machine that could do it. Or there should be. But too late to get it here. And too expensive, anyway.

He was cheaper.

But this was OK. Sleeves rolled up, the sun warm, chipping away. And that hassle, with new bricks versus the old, sorted out. Although the manager hated his guts. Twice he’d seen him go in and out of the yard. And he’d ignored Jack totally. Not that he minded, it meant he was left alone to get on with his work without the gimlet eye looking for someone to criticise. Probably some other poor sod was getting it in the neck for the battle Jack had won. Though he’d better make sure this was a first class job.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes to tea break. Over in the greenhouse with Liz. Steamy biscuits. Oh yes. He tried not to think of what might happen after the last biscuit melted in the tea. Nothing most likely. She might be fixed up, a big bruising guy, a 10
th
Dan in some martial arts discipline involving flying kicks and punches that smashed planks in half. Or. There was the dream, the one he was a sucker for. His bedmate, the companion of his soul, the one and only… And he wondered if he was too awkward a bugger for that to ever really happen. Once he’d got off best behaviour, once he was seen for what he really was. A builder scraping a living, a drink away from a drunken sot; she’d run a mile.

Women aren’t perfect. That had to be remembered. We are all dirty sinners, dressing up, washing and deodorising to give the lie to the lonely ape howling for love. Some of the guys at Alcohol Halt had it all down as original sin. The wicked trip of all humanity, with only one way to salvation.

The problem with dating, and such like, was that everyone was on best behaviour, making you think: I’m the only one pretending. Junk, pure junk, he knew. But he found at times it was hard to convince himself.

Shut up and clean the bricks. Enjoy the sunshine.

Don’t damn a relationship before it begins.

And that other woman. He hadn’t got her name yet. The one who was on the machine who’d kept teasing him about dinner tonight. He didn’t know what to make of that. Down, boy. One at a time. Tea break. See how that goes, before you start thinking of the evening meal and its desserts.

This wall was a focus; most people came past here, to come in the park, or to leave, though there was another gate. This, the main one. And the park workers came in and out of the yard just opposite. The Superintendent had come back out, made a cheery remark about the lowering wall and the reclaimed bricks, the manager went out to bully his staff and in to do his paperwork presumably. That woman with the leaf machine had come in once. She didn’t look half so attractive pushing that thing, hunched over and glowering. She’d waved to him but hadn’t mentioned dinner.

It was just a game, she’d already forgotten.

The marquee guys had driven past him and left the park, leaving their assemblage in the middle of the lawn. Two of its flaps were open – revealing the empty belly. Awaiting Liz’s display, tables and tablecloths, canapés and the glasses and bottles to keep the nobs merry.

It could be lonely being a builder. Working on his own all day. Here, he had all the traffic, and wondered which he preferred. It depended on the traffic. Liz anytime, the manager, no thank you. The other woman? Maybe, perhaps. Depending.

His phone rang. He fished it out from deep in his overall pocket. Could be a customer. He had not much on after this job. Cross fingers. But no – it was his daughter.

‘Hello, Mia.’

‘Hello, Dad.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘I am at school. I’m in the library, looking for a book on Mali cattle drovers… The librarian’s in her office. And she can’t see me behind the shelves anyway.’

‘She might hear you.’

‘I don’t want to talk about the library, but about Tony.’

‘Who’s Tony?’

‘Mum’s boyfriend.’

‘I didn’t know she had one.’

‘You’re way behind, Dad. He’s moved in. And he’s a pig.’

‘That was quick work. How’s he a pig?’

‘The way he eats, the way he talks, his smarmy smile. He’s always touching Mum…’

What could he say about that? Hadn’t he done the same? Except no kids were present at the time.

‘It’s a phase,’ he said. ‘He’s just moved in. Love and all that. He’ll get over it.’

‘I hate being in a room with the two of them. The way they smile at each other, touch knees under the table, hold hands while they’re watching TV. They hate me being with them.’

‘It’s a phase,’ he could only repeat. Though it was not a situation he’d been in; new lovers with a twelve year old sulking in the wings. What the hell do you do?

‘I had to shut their door last night. The noise they were making.’

Jack chuckled. That would put a damper on their love making.

‘You laughing, Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not funny. It’s pathetic. I can’t stand it there. The flat’s too small for three. I’ve only got my room. Mum keeps having a go at me for being in it all the time. Tony bought me a tablet. I’m never going to use it.’

‘He’s only trying, Mia.’

‘It’s never going to work. He’s a total creep. Oh, here comes the librarian. Talk to you later, Dad.’

She rang off. He put the phone back in his pocket and picked up the brick he’d been working on before the call. He felt sympathy for all parties. Her new beau wanting sex and love, adult things. Alison ditto. All perfectly natural. And poor Mia, feeling in the way, her mum with less time for her, Tony trying to buy her affection. He could imagine it in that claustrophobic flat in Brighton. He’d been there a number of times to pick up Mia. Fine for two people. Three OK – if they all get on well. But not with Mia in her room, sullen with one word answers. And Alison torn between lover and daughter. He could even feel sorry for his ex.

Not that sorry. Considering the time she’d given him. And to be fair, he’d given her. Until she put him out on the street with a suitcase. Awful time. Human beings are said to be social animals. So social that he was living on his own. In some ways happier, and some ways not so. Social, antisocial.

No wonder the rich have massive houses. Dilute the rows and body smells. We need space. We need to be together. How is it ever possible?

Poor Mia, with all this to and fro-ing the last few years. His drinking, mum and dad at war. And now, with dad gone, Alison’s attempts at a new partner. But did she really have to move him in so quickly? Was she that in love? Or that desperate?

Not questions he could ever ask Alison. He had his own desperation to consider. And looked at his watch. Tea break. And his invitation to the greenhouse for tea and biscuits. He rubbed his hands; this could be good. Or just tea and stale biscuits. Don’t assume, he told himself. Step by step. And other clichés. It takes two. And who knew if at the end of the tea break his fantasy might lie in tatters. She might be a Jehovah’s Witness come to save his soul or a little Englander with nasty views on anyone not exactly like her.

And so forth and so on. Preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.

Jack packed his tools in his toolbox. Leave nothing out, a hard learnt lesson. Once, he’d been gone for five minutes, and lost a hammer, drill and spirit level. Another time, a brand new door had been taken off the roof rack of his van. All set to do the job, he’d just taken his tools upstairs, and when he came back out to pick up the door, there was nothing there but the bungee cords.

He put the tools in the wheelbarrow and wheeled it into the yard and into the shed, leaving the barrow in a corner out of the way. Should be safe enough there, with all the coming and going.

And then he headed for the greenhouse, and his assignation. Fancy word that. Wasn’t it more for gangsters meeting in sleazy bars, than a polite tea in a greenhouse – with perhaps a combo playing snazzy jazz. No, it wasn’t a club in Harlem full of tobacco smoke and illicit booze, but quite what it was he didn’t know. A Smile-in, that might progress to a Hand-in. He couldn’t help a silly grin at his hopefulness. But unsure what to expect, he’d brought his backpack, containing his lunch and thermos, just in case there was less on offer than tea and jam scones with cream on top.

He paused to admire the wall of the yard, OK, a delaying tactic. Be a little late. The eight-foot height of it brilliant with Virginia creeper, the leaves like flat fish, a sexy red. Did its roots burrow into the brickwork or was the plant somehow stuck on? He looked closely, following the branches with his fingers. And saw that the leaves came off of twigs which came off a thin sort of trunk that grew out of the earth at the foot of the wall. There were small pads that held the plant to the bricks. Damn clever. The brickwork was a support, not a substitute for soil. He could imagine, if he ever had a garden, quite getting into growing things. This plant without a single brain cell had come up with this ability to make use of a wall. How? And that red, a real shocker. It made him think of cabaret dancers with their slinky boas and ostrich feathers. Maybe in the jazz club in prohibition Harlem.