Just a Murder (2)

Simon wakes up in the middle of the night immediately alert. There is someone in the house.

 

He listens intently, survival-instinct-level listening. He hears the occasional crash and bang of a human being not bothering to hide his or her presence.

 

He remembers where he is. This isn’t the hotel he’s been staying in since Sally threw him out, it’s another strange bed. He’s in The Murder House. He’s sleeping in the murder victim’s bed. Albeit in clean sheets.

 

He strains his ears. There’s definitely someone downstairs. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but even still part of his brain is overwhelmed by irrational terror. It’s dark, he’s alone in a strange place, it’s The Murder House and there are mysterious noises. But this is not, reminds himself, a ghost story. This is real life.

 

Opening a curtain for moonlight to see by, he scouts for a weapon he could use in defence, or possibly attack. There is nothing, unless he untwists a metal coat-hanger and forms it into a makeshift sling, but even then there is nothing for him to sling, except rolled up socks and the screwed up pieces of paper that come free with every writer.

 

Without a weapon he has two options: stay in bed and hope the intruder / ghost goes away, or a full-frontal – lights on, ‘you’d better leave or else’ approach.

 

He chooses the latter, because, at the end of the day, who wouldn’t? Hiding away in bed is not really an option.

 

There is no reaction to the light nor to the deliberately clumpy way he gets out of bed and dressing-gowns up. Not the hoped for scamper and dash out of the front door by an intruder keen to avoid capture.

 

He plonks his way downstairs. The kitchen light is on. Maybe not burglars, he thinks, there’s nothing to steal in a kitchen. Maybe someone’s broken in to see the murder scene, the ultimate true-crime enthusiast. However, he’s not entirely sure that this is a better option, as that level of ‘true-crime enthusiasm’ seems dangerously keen. Recreational murder can soon become re-creational murder.

 

Suddenly a voice calls out from the kitchen. At first he is chilled by the sound, then when realisation hits he is relieved, overjoyed, and then when realisation hits deeper, he is angry, annoyed.

 

“That you bro?” a voice says. His brother’s voice.

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Simon says, kicking the kitchen door open with an angry crash. “I thought you were a burglar, or a ghost.”

 

“Whooo,” his brother says, waving his hands in an utterly unconvincing ghost impression.

 

“It’s not funny, there’s been a murder in this house you know.”

 

“Yeah, but the cops would have noticed if the killer was still here.”

 

Maybe not the cops, thinks Simon, who has been significantly unimpressed by the policemen he’s met whilst researching and promoting his novels, but Trish would certainly have sorted them out. ‘Oy, you with the bloodstained feet, out! You’re making a mess on me floor.’

 

Simon observes that his brother is not alone. He has brought a suitcase, a fishing basket, numerous other bags and three fishing rods.

 

“Just passing through?”

 

“Jan said you were here so I thought I’d pop down and keep an eye on you.”

 

“Didn’t Jan tell you why I’m here? To get away from it all, somewhere quiet where I can work on my novel without interruption.”

 

“It’s fine, I won’t get in your way. I’ve brought my fishing gear, I’ll hardly see you, just enough company to stop you getting cabin fever.”

“Is there even anywhere to fish round here?”

“Oh yes, I looked it up, there’s a carp lake not ten miles down the road.”

 

“It’s probably members only. Most carp lakes are.”

“No, really? You think I didn’t think of that? I phoned the guy who runs the lake yesterday, and I can get a two-week permit. Renewable, if I want to come back later in your stay.”

 

“So let me get this straight. You sought out the carp lake owner’s permission before you came to visit, but didn’t think to ask me.”

 

“Carp lake manager, not owner. The owner’s probably a Russian billionaire who doesn’t even know he owns the place. Anyway bro, don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your investigation.”

 

“Investigation? What are you talking about? I thought you said Jan told you, I’m here to work on my novel.”

 

Kevin says nothing, but from one of the numerous carrier bags with which he has adorned the kitchen floor, he takes out the Sun.

 

“I can’t believe you read that shit.  It’s written for people with a reading age of a nine year old child. Aren’t you ashamed?”

 

And shows his brother the headline on page five.

 

‘Crime writer turns crime-fighter – author Nathan Graham tries to solve real life murder mystery’.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

He snatches the paper from his brother’s hands.

 

“Bloody Hell! This fucking paper. They’re saying I’m here to solve the murder.”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“Of course not. I told you, I’m here to write a novel.”

 

He re-reads the story and re-reads it and re-reads it again. They’ve taken his facebook posting, his photo of the crime scene, and his quote about it being a perfect place to write about a murder mystery, and turned it into … well, turned it into an article in the Sun, one where truth hides uncomfortably somewhere deep, deep in the background, only visible if you know it’s there.

 

Shit.

“Shit.”

 

His brother stares at him, not really comprehending.

 

“I saw your facebook page. It’s what you posted.”

 

“I know, but I didn’t mean…”

 

Shit.

 

“Shit.”

 

The two brothers say nothing for a while, Simon furiously re-reading the same story in the hope that eventually it won’t seem so bad, and his brother busy unpacking and generally re-arranging his clutter. Kevin is the first to breach the silence.

 

“So, you pleased to see me?”

 

“Yeah, of course. But you should’ve said.”

 

“You’d have said no. You’d have done the whole ‘I’m a lonely writer here to solve crime without assistance’.”

“I am not here to fight crime. Anyway, what are you doing here so early? It’s still the middle of the night.”

 

“It’s not early. It’s nearly seven. Thought I’d make sure I beat the traffic and got a good spot at the lake.”

 

“What time did you get up?

 

“Just after three. I’m famished, I couldn’t eat anything at home as I didn’t want to wake Kaz, and I try to avoid service stations in the wee small hours, there are some strange people about. I’m gonna do meself some brekkie. Want anything?”

 

“Just coffee. It’s too early for food.”

 

Kevin makes a jug of coffee, leaving it “to fester”, then takes out a can of Heinz tomato soup from one of the many bags that are littering the floor, pours the contents into a saucepan, and watches it slowly warm.

 

“Soup for breakfast?”

 

“Well, it’s more like lunch for me, or at least brunch. Besides, you can have anything for breakfast.”

 

“Not soup.”

 

“Nonsense, there’s no restriction on breakfast, you can literally have anything. The British eat fried bacon, bread and black pudding, the Japanese eat raw fish, the Americans eat pancakes, Germans eat cold meat, Scandinavians eat nuts and dried fruit, students eat cold leftover pizza and the Swiss eat muesli. Anything can be breakfast. Even muesli.”

 

“Yeah, anything but soup. It’s the one thing that nobody eats for breakfast. Not Germans, not Japanese, not students, not even the Swiss eat soup for breakfast.”

 

“I do.”

 

“I rest my case. On a planet of seven billion people you, and you alone, eat soup for breakfast.”

“Nothing wrong with Heinz tomato soup.”

 

“No, seriously, Heinz tomato. Do they still even make that?”

Don’t be a snob, there’s nothing wrong with Heinz. Just cos you won’t eat any soup that costs less than five pounds a go and comes wrapped in the Guardian.”

 

“I do not eat soup out of the Guardian. It’s a fine paper, but it falls short in the qualities required for a soup vessel.”

“Vessel! You eat soup out of ships? And you call me weird for eating Heinz.”

 

Whenever they meet Simon and Kevin banter in this manner, sibling rivalry as played out in verbal joust. Nobody ever wins, of course, it’s a game played purely for the sake of playing, like so much else in life.

 

While Kevin heats his soup Simon pours the coffee. He can never face food this early in the morning, though he finds the smell of Heinz tomato strangely homely, even though it hadn’t graced his own home for over a decade.

 

I’ll have to suggest it to Jan, next time there’s a viewing, he thinks. The aroma of Heinz tomato, nothing like it to make punters believe that this is their potential home.

 

As long as you don’t spill any, of course, the last thing you need in The Murder House is red stains everywhere.