Diary of a Somebody Page 20

  I told them I hadn’t seen him since early August, the last time he’d visited Poetry Club. Sergeant Tuck scribbled this down in his notepad.

  ‘And you’re sure you’ve not seen him since?’ asked DI Lansbury, his beard moving effortlessly in rhythm with his jaw.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I replied, smiling and unblinking.

  ‘And can I just ask what you were doing on the evening of Thursday 6th September?’

  I thought for a moment.

  ‘Let’s see. I think I’d have just had a quiet night in. Yes, that’s right. I remember now. I was watching Murder, She Wrote. It was the one in which she investigates the murder of a popular neighbourhood greengrocer, who was found choked to death on his own kumquats. Do you know you share your surname with Angela Lans—’

  ‘Yes, of course I know that,’ he snapped, with some irritation, as if this coincidence may have been mentioned to him before. ‘A night in? I don’t suppose you have any witnesses for that, do you?’

  ‘Um, no, I don’t. Apart from the cat.’ I laughed loudly. He didn’t join in.

  ‘That’s fine. Not to worry, sir. As I say, we’re just making routine enquiries. It’s not as if we’ve found a mutilated corpse, is it!’ he joked, staring intently at me.

  I smiled uneasily. ‘Quite,’ I said.

  ‘Now Sergeant Tuck just has a few brief questions to ask you for our records.’

  I helped him fill in the form, experiencing that uncomfortable feeling of exposure I somehow always get when my particulars are taken down.

  Tuesday September 25th

  Custard Creams: A Love Sonnet

  How do I scoff thee? Let me count the ways.

  I dunk thee in my morning cup of tea,

  thy vanilla centre dost gladden me

  and gives me strength to face the darkest days.

  My hunger for thee contains no bandwidth,

  we meet at breakfast and elevenses,

  at three o’clock and half-past-sevenses,

  divine delectable biscuit sandwich.

  Thou dost pick me up whene’er I stumble.

  Thou dost make me feel I’m not a misfit.

  Thou art always there. Thou dost never grumble.

  To be with thee, my whole life I’d risk it,

  For my love for you shall never crumble,

  My beloved creamy custard biscuit.

  There are times when there is simply no substitute for a custard cream. These times are typically from 7am to 10pm, at the following intervals: 00, 15, 30, 45. There is something about their vanilla-custard filling and the baroque carving of the outer sandwich layers which lends itself to the practice of contemplation and study. And never had I felt more in need of them than today.

  They couldn’t seriously believe that I had something to do with Toby Salt’s disappearance, could they? But there was something in DI Lansbury’s manner which suggested they did. Regardless, the main thing was to play it cool. No one was pointing their finger – not even a Rich Tea finger – at me yet.

  I went out into the garden to check up on things in the shed.

  Wednesday September 26th

  The Picture in the Attic

  I kept it in the attic –

  under lock and key –

  a youthful, fresh-faced picture

  of who I used to be.

  And this face you see before you,

  I dragged around my life –

  growing wrinkled, gnarled and ravaged –

  for its vicissitudes were rife.

  But meanwhile, in the attic,

  that pure and hopeful face,

  immune to life’s misfortunes,

  bore not one single trace.

  For years I hid it from her,

  but in shame I did confess.

  She listened to my story

  then said, ‘That’s because it’s a photograph, you idiot.’

  I hadn’t finished the book, of course, but I went anyway. I’d hoped to try and ingratiate my way back into the group through the use of some of Wildean witticisms:

  ‘To fail to read one book may be regarded as a misfortune; to fail to read every book looks like illiteracy.’

  ‘I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the bus.’

  ‘I can resist anything except pistachios.’

  But they fell on resolutely deaf ears. The group turned to me after they’d finished their discussion. I was to be given one last chance: read next month’s book and make a proper contribution – or I was out.

  The book: No Bridge These Hands Shall Cleave by Toby Salt.

  I stared morosely at the pub’s wallpaper. It was dreadful. One of us will have to go.

  Thursday September 27th

  ‘I hear they’re all heading off, then?’ said Darren. We were pre-gig and for once he was not holding a big luminescent sign.

  ‘Yes.’ I gave him a look that suggested I didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘America,’ he said, with an involuntary whistle to emphasise the enormity of the word.

  I intensified my look.

  ‘Long way, that,’ he continued. ‘Very long way.’

  ‘Have you seen this guy before?’ I asked him, in an attempt to change the conversation. We were waiting for Little Floyd Wetherspoon to come on stage. He was a blues singer who was reinterpreting the genre for the modern age.

  ‘Still, at least it’s east coast. Three thousand two hundred and sixty-five miles to Boston, it is, or thereabouts. From Heathrow, that is.’ ‘I’ve heard Wetherspoon’s not his real name. He adopted it in an unsuccessful attempt to secure a nationwide deal with the popular pub chain of the same name.’

  ‘The flight time isn’t so bad,’ he mused. ‘Seven hours. But don’t forget you need to factor in all that hanging around at the airport, both sides. And then there’s the cost!’ He whistled again.

  ‘I don’t know for sure about the “Little Floyd” bit. But that sounds made up, too.’

  ‘Must be hard for you. An ocean between you and your son. A whole ocean.’

  I was considering accidentally spilling my pint on him when there was some activity on stage and a man of remarkably average height and stature launched into ‘Can’t Get My Wi-Fi Working’.

  The other rumour I had heard about Little Floyd Wetherspoon was that he’d sold his soul to the devil in return for the gift of the blues. I thought about the shed and whether I had left the door firmly locked and bolted behind me.

  Friday September 28th

  hipster cop

  hipster cop

  with his hipster well-cropped mutton chops

  has a favourite case, for sure,

  you won’t know it

  it’s too obscure

  hipster cop

  with his hipster thrift-shop beach flipflops

  rehabilitates hardened villains

  he makes them listen

  to early dylan

  hipster cop

  buys hipster chips from hip hop chip shops

  gangland bosses he just don’t dig

  he prefers their petty crimes

  before they got big

  After another troubled night, I opened the door again to DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck. They seemed preoccupied with the antics of Mrs McNulty, who was leaning out of her bedroom window, shouting, ‘It was him! It was him! He’s the one you want!’

  I ushered the police officers inside quickly and mumbled an apology.

  ‘That’s just Mrs McNulty from next door!’ I told them, chuckling and shaking my head. ‘She’s such a character! Utterly bonkers, of course, but we all love her around here, the lovely crazy woman!’

  I noticed DI Lansbury glance at Sergeant Tuck, who proceeded to write something in his notebook. He then asked:

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have wished to harm Mr Salt, sir?’

  I pretended to think carefully before replying.

  ‘No, I don’t. Although I could think of plenty of
people who might have wanted to harm his poetry!’

  Neither man laughed at my joke. I could see DI Lansbury’s magnificent beard noticeably bristling.

  ‘How about yourself, sir? We’ve had it on good authority that you and Mr Salt had a small altercation the last time you met.’

  Damn them in Poetry Club.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t quite call it that. Just a mild disagreement about the nature of poetry. That kind of thing happens all the time amongst poets. We’re a passionate lot!’

  He looked back at me, considering this statement.

  ‘So it would appear, sir. If anything does occur to you, then please don’t hesitate in giving us a call, will you? We’re beginning to think that Mr Salt’s absence may have been of a rather more permanent nature that we had originally thought.’

  They left. Next door, Mrs McNulty was busy unfurling a bedsheet from her bedroom window, on which she’d written ‘HELP! I AM LIVING NEXT DOOR TO A MURDERER’ in red marker pen.

  Saturday September 29th

  Arklife

  Competence was my reference as the scriptural voyager

  on what is known as – Arklife!

  And the monkey coop can be avoided if you take a route

  straight through what is known as – Arklife!

  Shem’s got puma poop, he gets intimidated by the dirty chickens

  They love a bit of it – Arklife!

  What’s that buzzard starting?

  You should cut down on your squawklife, mate. Get some exercise.

  All the creatures, so many creatures

  They all go two by two,

  two by two through their Arklife.

  Know what I mean.

  I get up when I want except on Wednesdays

  when I get rudely awakened by the bison – Arklife!

  I put on my apron, inspect myself for fleas,

  and I think about lemurs and cows – Arklife!

  I feed birds, fish, insects. I also feed the mammals, too,

  it gives me a sense of enormous well-being – Arklife!

  And then I’m happy for the rest of the day,

  safe in the knowledge that I’ve remembered

  to feed the unicorns at the end of it.

  All the creatures, so many creatures

  They all go two by two,

  two by two through their Arklife.

  Know what I mean.

  It’s got nothing to do with your horse dung durch technik, you know.

  And it’s not about you goldfish, who go round and round and round.

  Our day at the zoo passed in a blur. We lingered with the lions, hung out with the Humboldt penguins, loitered splendidly with the slender lorises, lounged languidly with the langurs, moseyed with Geoffrey’s marmosets (Geoffrey didn’t seem to mind) and tarried with the tamarins.

  We had hoped to see the silverback gorilla but he stayed in his enclosure all day, watching re-runs of Taggart on his television. I shook my head. Imagine a majestic creature wasting its life in such a way!

  On the bus back, I asked Dylan about how he was feeling about America.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, turning his head to look out the window.

  ‘But won’t it be exciting? You’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘Only to visit, not to live. All my friends are here. I won’t know anyone.’ He pressed his head against the glass.

  ‘Oh, you’ll soon make friends,’ I said. ‘Lots of them. Never forget the hold an English accent has over an American.’

  ‘But they won’t be the same as my friends here. Everything will be different.’ He paused to reflect a moment. ‘They don’t even put an “s” on the end of “maths”.’

  ‘Well, that’s because they need it to put on the end of “sports”.’

  Dylan smiled briefly.

  ‘Ah, yes. Of course. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do. Believe me, I do. I know it can be hard to make friends. Change is difficult. But it’ll be an adventure, too. Sometimes shaking things up is good. You don’t want to spend your life being dictated to by the waste-collection schedule. Or when your next book group meeting is. Don’t measure out your life in coffee spoons!’

  ‘Or in Wetherspoons.’

  ‘That’s true enough. I guess what I’m saying is . . . just don’t end up being a nobody like me, that’s all. You’re young and clever, funny and kind. Do something with your life. Be a somebody!’

  ‘That sounds like the kind of thing Stuart would say. Anyway, you are a somebody,’ he protested. ‘You’re my dad! And besides, I’d much rather end up like you than Stuart.’

  ‘I should think so, too,’ I said, managing to restrain myself from high-fiving all the other passengers. ‘I like to think that if I’ve taught you anything at all, it’s to maintain a healthy suspicion of anyone who wilfully chooses to play The Best of Huey Lewis and the News in public.’

  Dylan smiled again and we settled back into thoughtful silence while the seats around us slowly emptied and we waited for our stop to come.

  Sunday September 30th

  Last Night, Sleepwalking . . .

  I broke my arm

  when I fell off a fence.

  Got taken off

  in a somnambulance.

  Dave brought me back inside at 4am. He was smoking in his garden when he heard a noise from over the fence. He peered over and saw me in my dressing gown. I was talking to someone inside my writing shed, as I rattled the door and angrily fumbled with my keys. He told me all this after he’d guided me back to my kitchen and made me a cup of tea.

  Stress and anxiety can contribute to sleepwalking, according to Dave, and he advised me to take it easy. He says Mrs McNulty thinks it has more to do with the presence of a full moon but we agreed that seems unlikely.

  October

  Monday October 1st

  Versions, He Wrote

  I

  The record was lodged

  deep down his throat:

  REM’s first album.

  Murmur, she wrote.

  II

  Hairy hobbit foot,

  severed. No note.

  Who was behind this?

  Mordor, she wrote.

  III

  Stuffed in his mouth,

  an inspirational quote:

  ‘Happiness in execution’.

  Goethe, she wrote.

  I locked up the shed and came back into the house.

  I lay on the sofa. The cat lay on me. A youthful Angela Lansbury appeared on the screen. I looked at the television guide: it was an old version of The Picture of Dorian Gray. She was in the role of Sybil Vane. I started watching the film but must have drifted off. She was on stage, singing old music-hall numbers – ‘My Old Dutch’, ‘When Father Papered the Parlour’, ‘A Little Bit of Cucumber’.

  The audience swayed along in time, loving it. All of a sudden, the music stopped and the lights went down. Ghostly chimes began to ring out. The band struck up again but this time their accompaniment was more sinister and brooding. Sybil Vane turned and fixed her eyes on me, and began to sing:

  Take a little walk to the edge of town

  Go across the tracks

  Where the viaduct looms

  Like a bird of doom

  As it shifts and cracks

  I recognised it. It was by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The song continued. When she reached the words:

  But hidden in his coat

  Is a red right hand

  the stage lighting turned red, thunder rumbled, and a bell tolled loudly. She lifted up her own right hand and pointed at me. It was then that I noticed the rest of the audience; their music-hall high spirits had long since disappeared, usurped by fear and anger. They turned their eyes upon me. Terrified, I shifted back in my seat as they closed in upon me . . .

  My shout woke me up. The cat slept on as I groped for a custard cream.

  I didn’t bother looking this one up in my Dream Dictionary.

  Tu
esday October 2nd

  They’ll be hard at it right now. Mary will be revealing the secrets of one of her six husbands. Kaylee will be kicking the ass of injustice. Chandrima will be lighting up the moon. And Liz will be making the world go weak at the knees.

  I’d toyed briefly with the idea of showing my face but quickly reconsidered as I remembered the look on Kaylee’s.

  I thought about them all gathered together and redoubled my efforts.

  Wednesday October 3rd

  DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck were back again. Mrs McNulty can’t have seen them approaching this time as I could hear her sawing busily next door. DI Lansbury’s beard sparkled with freshly shampooed lustre.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you once more, sir,’ he said, ‘but we were wondering if you’d given any more thought as to whether you knew of anyone who might harbour ill-feelings towards Mr Salt.’

  ‘Oh, still missing, is he?’ I said casually. ‘No, I really can’t think of anyone. Hard to imagine him being given a second thought, to be honest. He was a bit of a nonentity.’

  ‘You’ve not noticed anyone exhibit strange or erratic behaviour around him. Say, at one of those poetry festivals he’d go to.’ He paused then shot me a quick look. ‘In Saffron Walden, for instance.’

  Our eyes locked briefly before I shifted my gaze quickly away. How on earth did he know about that? I fumbled for a reply but his attention had been grabbed by my diary, which lay open at my desk. He leant towards it and read aloud a line from it:

  ‘ “I wondered whether Liz has ever caressed Toby Salt’s magic flute.” ’

  He flicked through more of its pages and then scrutinised its Hello Kitty cover.

  ‘Is this your diary, sir?’ he asked with faux innocence.