Page 3 of Blame
She’d been busy taking him in – sandy-coloured hair and deep brown eyes – so his question left her completely blindsided while the rush of heat that flooded Frankie’s cheeks made her look stupid and naive. She was so out of practice. Actually, it was worse than that because she’d more or less forgotten what it was like to go on a date or even feel attracted to someone.
The cringe-making silence that followed only highlighted her inadequacy so the appearance of a glowering Mrs Devilchild, dragging her wheelie bin up the drive and towards them was the icing on the cake-of-awkwardness.
Jed looked as embarrassed as Frankie felt, and then Mrs D paused as she positioned her bin, glancing from one to the other and smirking. No doubt she thought they were in cahoots, and that Frankie had lied because she was having a thing with the builder, or maybe she was amused by Frankie’s flushed cheeks, or the fact that she was a flirt. Whatever it was, Frankie hated being judged. She wasn’t standing for that ever again, which is why she surprised herself with an answer for Jed, who it had to be said, looked just as taken aback.
‘Okay you’re on, I’d like that. I’m free on Saturday if that suits you, or whenever, just let me know.’
Jed appeared to gather his wits, edged himself off the truck and put his phone away, then gathered Frankie’s shopping bags. ‘That’s ace. I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Is that okay?’ He walked down Frankie’s path, both of them ignoring the huffing sound from Mrs D. ‘What’s your favourite, Italian, Chinese, Indian? Just so I know where to book a table.’
‘Yes, that’s fine, I’ll look forward to it and I like anything… Well actually, Chinese is my least favourite, but I’ll still eat it, but not bat soup obviously. Look, why don’t you surprise me. Oh, and nowhere posh: posh makes me uncomfortable.’ Frankie knew she was rambling and wanted to slap herself.
At this Jed laughed as he placed the shopping bags at the door to her flat. ‘Okay, and I get what you mean about posh, and bat soup. I know the perfect place.’
‘That’s great, I’ll look forward to it.’ Frankie rummaged in her bag for her keys but Jed appeared to be going nowhere fast.
‘And don’t worry, I won’t pick you up in Old Smoky. I’ve got my own car, don’t want you getting covered in plaster dust and bits of Spud’s dinner.’
Frankie paused, keys in hand, a bit confused. ‘Old Smoky?’
Jed pointed over his shoulder to the works truck, with his thumb that had what looked like bloodied masking tape wrapped around it. ‘That’s what we call Dad’s old truck. He’s had it for donkey’s; it’s knackered but he won’t get rid. So, I’ll see you on Saturday then?’
‘Yep, that’s fine, see you Saturday.’ Frankie was about to put the key in the door when she heard Ken shout over the fence.
‘Oi, lover boy, get yer arse round here and do some bleedin’ work otherwise I’ll dock yer pay.’
At this they both laughed, Frankie blushed and as Jed waved and backed away, she somehow managed to open the door and once she’d dragged her shopping inside flopped onto the stairs, held her head in her hands and wondered what the hell she’d done.
2
After twelve extremely unpleasant years in prison, Herbert had been most relieved when he finally got a cell to himself. Sharing with some of society’s low-lifes had been a trial; however, for the last seventeen months he’d been king of his tiny yet grotty castle and today, he actually felt grateful for such small mercies.
Gratitude wasn’t an emotion Herbert was accustomed to but under the circumstances he needed solitude and time to think, to take it all in. He’d been rather put-out that his test results had been given to him by the prison doctor because Herbert enjoyed the drama of an escorted visit to the hospital. From the moment he stepped out of the vehicle people looked shocked to see a handcuffed prisoner and his jailors walking the corridors or sitting in outpatients.
They were no doubt curious as to his crimes and Herbert would have loved it if someone had plucked up the courage to ask the guards what he’d done. Once the words were spoken imagine how aghast they’d be, face to face with a real life murderer. ‘BOO!’
Herbert had perfected the persona of a hardened criminal and liked to intimidate anyone who was brave or curious enough to catch his eye. He’d put on a few pounds over the years, becoming sloth-like, pudgy and sallow of skin, not a pretty sight. Then gradually, over the past few months it had all dropped off and he barely recognised himself in the mirror. Not surprising really, with all the worry over tests and scans.
During his hospital outings, in the absence of bulk he’d used his gaunt, unshaven face to project an unkempt, tough-guy image, slouching, irreverent, like he was proud of his jailbird status. Then, once he’d lulled the onlookers into a false sense of security and let them have a gawp, his eyes would slowly scan the room, resting on his prey. Herbert would hold them in his sights for a second, then squint, sending them a message via a sneer. The best part was when they looked away quickly, or down at their hands, too embarrassed or unnerved to glance up again. Oh the power! He loved it.
This time he’d been denied an afternoon out, a chance to remind himself what life on the outside was like, what he could look forward to when he was released at the end of the month. Instead they’d taken him to see the prison quack who gave him the results of his tests; or, to be more accurate, sentenced him to death.
This is what Herbert needed to get his head around, alone and back in his cell. He hadn’t reacted to the doctor’s words. No, not a flicker of emotion did he show. Clasping his hands to prevent them from trembling Herbert remained impassive, listening to every word before giving the doctor a curt nod, then he stood. No way was he going to thank the quack. What for? Telling him he was going to die, that there was nothing they could do, and if he was lucky he might have six months to a year? Fuck that. In fact fuck them all. Fuck everyone and everything.
As he sat there on his shitty bed in his shitty cell that stank of drains and sweaty socks, Herbert started to laugh at his own ridiculous thoughts. Because after waiting all this time, he probably wouldn’t be fucking anyone or anything, not now, not for long anyway.
Herbert sighed and lay down, closing his eyes to block out the brown stain on the ceiling. Some joker had left it there as a mark of disrespect or something equally puerile and quite frankly disgusting and inconsiderate.
Sucking in the fetid air, then regretting it, Herbert assimilated the information he’d been given, replaying the words of the doctor in his mind. He’d thought he was just ill, or getting old, so the diagnosis came as a hammer blow. No easy way to say this. The results of your test have found cancer in your spleen, bladder, kidney and lymph nodes. Treatment will prolong but not cure. Palliative care and counselling will be offered. You need time to consider your options. I’m extremely sorry and if there is anything else you think of or need to ask, make an appointment and come back to see me. I accept this will have come as a great shock…
Shock! Was the quack having a laugh? Herbert was feeling more than shock. Forcing down the swell of panic that was building in his chest, he was losing the battle with anger, consumed by white rage, Herbert balled his fists and would have punched the wall had it not been made from brick. Fourteen years he’d been stuck in that cesspit, being a good boy, biding his time, making plans, perfecting the persona of a misunderstood, deeply principled and devoutly Christian man. If only they knew that on the inside he was as foul-mouthed and depraved as most of them on his wing.
The thought and effort that had gone into paving the way for his release made him want to weep, but he wouldn’t. Herbert wasn’t weak. He never cried, not even when they arrested, charged and found him guilty of killing that harlot Abby Mills. Yes, they had him bang to rights. All he had to do was plead guilty. If he did, his brief had assured him he’d get a lighter sentence.
No way.
Regardless of how long he served Herbert would always be branded as a killer, shunned by society and rejected by his community and if that was the case then he was going to make sure that Abby went down in village history as their very own Lolita, dirty slapper and man-baiter. That was why Herbert pleaded not guilty, had his day in court and insisted her death wasn’t his fault. Yes, he’d roughed her up a bit after she made him feel inadequate, laughing at his flaccidity, goading him and insisting he gave her money even though he couldn’t perform, threatening to tell the whole village that he couldn’t get it up.
They said, the police, that he’d dragged her to the edge of the reservoir and then thrown her in. Herbert had insisted she ran from the car and he drove home. It was plausible.
