How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery Page 5

  As he hit the water he heard an almighty crash. He knew instantly what it was. The coldness of the water took his breath away and instantly numbed him all over. As he rose to the surface, coughing and spluttering, he looked towards the deck. In his fear and panic, he’d lost his grip on the two tiles. The deck was splattered with a myriad of tiny pieces of orange terracotta.

  ‘Holy fucking Jesus!’

  Wayne stared down at him from the roof, open-mouthed. The French doors onto the deck flung open and Mrs Landers was about to step out when she saw the mess.

  ‘Oh no!’ She put her hands to her head. Then she looked over and saw Reuben hoisting himself out of the pool – a laborious task with boots full of water – and shrieked, ‘Oh, my God!’

  Wayne scrambled down the ladder and surveyed the damage. He looked at Reuben, cap in hand, clothes plastered to him and water pooling around him. He opened his mouth as if to give him a roasting, then clamped it shut and shook his head.

  ‘What’s the water like, mate?’

  Guffaws followed. Reuben looked over to see a line of faces grinning at him over the fence. The rest of the work crew had arrived.

  ***

  ‘Oh, Rubie!’

  Carlene stopped in mid-chop of a shallot, knife poised. ‘Tell me you’re joking!’

  ‘I could tell you I’m joking, but it wouldn’t be a joke.’

  ‘You fell into the pool? And broke all the tiles? On the first day?’

  ‘I didn’t break all the tiles, only two. And thanks for your concern, but if the pool hadn’t been there, I would have probably smashed myself to bits as well.’

  Carlene threw the chopped shallots into the pasta sauce. ‘What is it with you and jobs? You’re jinxed, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘It was an accident, it could have happened to anyone.’

  She sighed. ‘But it never does happen to anyone, it always happens to you.’

  She sat down at the table with her head in her hands. ‘So I suppose Wayne fired you.’

  Reuben uncorked the bottle of shiraz he’d bought on the way home to help soothe the troubled waters. He poured out two glasses.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  He handed Carlene a glass. ‘But I resigned anyway.’

  She looked aghast. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s a shit way to earn a buck and there’s got to be something out there that’s better.’

  There was no way he would admit to her that just the thought of getting back up on the roof made him dizzy.

  ‘Jesus, I just don’t get you. You’re offered a job with good pay, the boss is prepared to keep you on even when you stuff up and you just chuck it in! So much for gratitude!’

  ‘Gratitude’s got nothing to do with it. It was good of Wayne to offer me the job but it just isn’t my thing. Give me a chance, I’ll find something, I promise.’

  Carlene narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not doing this on purpose, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe you’re deliberately sabotaging these jobs because they’re not your thing. Or maybe deep down you think you’re not good enough for them. Self-sabotage, it’s called. It’s in the book I’m reading, The Psychology of Manifestation.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with self-sabotage. I’m just not good at those practical, hands-on jobs.’

  After a glass of shiraz, Carlene relaxed and her cheeks took on a rosy sheen. ‘I’ll have another word to Dad,’ she said as they sat down to dinner.

  Reuben refilled her glass and took her hand in his. ‘I think I’ve done my dash as far as your father’s generosity goes. Leave it to me, honey. Dave at the job agency is confident he can find me something really soon.’

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘No good news, I’m afraid.’

  Droopy Dave shuffled through some papers. Reuben was sure that if Dave scored him a million-dollar job, he’d break the news with the same hangdog demeanour.

  ‘Have you thought about what I suggested last time?’

  ‘About what I liked doing as a kid? I spent most of my childhood working out how to get the maximum amount of money for the least amount of effort. And that’s still my ambition.’

  Droopy Dave looked sadly at Reuben and shook his head.

  ‘The same could be said for us all. Unfortunately those sorts of jobs don’t exist – not for the likes of us, anyway.’

  It was obvious he meant ‘not for the likes of you.’

  ‘We’ve just had funding cutbacks, which means we’ve had to downsize our service delivery and re-prioritise our programs. So at the moment I can’t offer you anything specific, but moving forward I’m hoping for some positive outcomes.’

  ‘So I’m supposed to come in every fortnight, for you to tell me there’s nothing you can do for me?’

  Dave permitted himself a slight turning up of his mouth.

  ‘I know it’s a part of your parole plan, and I hope that despite the current circumstances we can work together to achieve your goals.’

  The only goal I have is to not have to come here and look at your ugly mug. How did people like that get these jobs? Perhaps he should put in an application for Droopy Dave’s job. As he walked the three blocks to the parole office, he entertained a vision of himself sitting at Droopy Dave’s desk with Dave on the other side, body sagging and melancholic eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘It’s unfortunate that the company has to let you go,’ Reuben said, ‘but when you don’t meet performance objectives…’ He shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘But moving forward I’m sure we can employ some initiatives with a view to a positive outcome. I’ll get back to you in a few months.’

  He was still replaying this satisfying scene in his head in the waiting room of the parole office, when a door opened and Lucy said, ‘Come in, Reuben.’

  She wore tailored slacks, shirt and jacket, a corporate look that accentuated her femininity. A subtle musky scent wafted in Reuben’s direction. It made him want to bury his face in her bare skin and drink it in, slowly, from head to toe.

  He stretched his legs out and clasped his hands in his lap.

  ‘How are you today?’ Lucy said.

  She sounded genuinely interested. And it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was pissed off at Droopy Dave and the world in general. But his tongue was in knots. Just being in her presence mesmerised him. She radiated the glow of good health and contentment; her husband undoubtedly gave her a regular rogering. Who wouldn’t, if you were married to her? Think about something else, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘Reuben?’ Lucy prompted.

  ‘Oh ... fine, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘Pretty good, thanks. Any luck with employment?’

  Employment. His brain came to a dead halt. Of course, jobs. Should he tell her about his latest failure? At least it would prove he’d been trying.

  Lucy leaned forward with an encouraging expression, a triangle of chest showing above the top button of her blouse.

  He gave her an account of his exploits on and off the roof. By the end of it she was laughing, tiny laugh lines fanning around her eyes. Reuben laughed too, ecstatic that he had made her laugh.

  ‘So what’s next in the adventures of Reuben Littlejohn?’ she asked. ‘Sounds like it should be a movie.’

  ‘Great idea, but unfortunately movie star doesn’t pop up too often in the "Situations Vacant".’

  She asked him a few more questions. Any financial troubles? No. How’s your wife? Fine. How are things at home? (subtext, how’s your relationship?) Fine. (subtext, every time we make love I think of you).

  All too soon she was writing out his next appointment. He racked his brain to think of something to prolong the interview.

  ‘So what’s next?’ he said as he signed the appointment slip.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m on parole for three years. What’s the plan for the long term?’

  ‘That depends on a lot of factors.’

  She tore
off the appointment slip and handed him his copy. He longed to brush his hand against hers, but that was overstepping the mark. The last thing he wanted was for Lucy to think him creepy.

  ‘Once you get a job, if you’re financially secure and everything else is okay, I can extend your visits to once monthly, perhaps less often further on.’

  That was a major incentive not to find work.

  ‘But there’s no set time frame, so let’s just see what happens.’

  She stood up. ‘Good luck. I hope you don’t have any more disasters to tell me about next time.’

  Reuben returned her smile, drinking in the sight and smell of her to file away in his memory, before opening the door.

  ***

  Not feeling in the mood to go home, he went into Joe’s Cafe and ordered a coffee. Nina, who was taking orders, was unmoved by his cheery greeting. Reuben picked up a copy of The Courier Mail from the counter and took it to his table. He flipped through to the ‘Situations Vacant’. Disability care workers, sales assistants, labourers, you had to have qualifications and/or experience for every job. Perhaps he should do a traffic controllers course, it was only two days according to the ad. Standing in the sun for endless hours, swatting flies and being abused by motorists – there had to be an easier way...

  Nina appeared with his coffee.

  ‘Thanks, Nina. You make the best coffee.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her manner was as crisp as her white blouse and apron. As she turned to leave, Reuben said on impulse, ‘You don’t have any jobs going here, do you?’

  She looked hard at him, as if trying to gauge his seriousness. ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Making coffee, cleaning, kitchen hand, anything. Oh, except taking orders and money. I, er ... prefer not to have customer contact.’

  ‘Not that I have anything against customers,’ he rushed on, ‘but I’m more a behind the scenes man.’

  ‘I see.’ She looked sceptical. ‘There’s nothing going at the moment. You can leave your resume if you want.’

  ‘I haven’t got one with me. I’ll drop it in.’

  He watched her walk away. She wore a short black skirt, stockings and flat shoes. Her build was wiry - her legs, though thin, were well shaped and she moved with an easy grace. Even though he wasn’t in the least bit attracted to her, the image of her in bed with him popped up in his mind - all bones and angles, not enough rounded flesh to grasp, although the swelling under her blouse suggested that what flesh she had was concentrated in one area.

  One of the effects of being deprived of female company while in jail was that since his release, he’d fantasised about every woman he saw who was remotely passable and even some who weren’t. Once he even had a vision of himself fucking Merle – why, he had no idea, but it was an image so horrifying he expunged it immediately from his mind. What would Carlene’s psychology book make of it? He decided it was a perverse part of his mind testing his limits of revulsion.

  He turned his attention back to the ‘Situations Vacant’. ‘Pizzazz Promotions wants you right now – jobs available for people of all ages, shapes and sizes. Film and TV work our specialty.’

  Then the magic words. ‘No experience necessary.’

  It wouldn’t be as simple as it sounded, there’d be provisos. But it was worth a go. He’d enjoyed drama classes at school and didn’t mind making a fool of himself in front of the others, particularly if he could raise a laugh. At university he joined the amateur theatrical society, mainly as a way of meeting girls. Who was that gorgeous babe they’d all lusted after, with a body so perfect their stage fright had turned to dumbstruck admiration? When, as Juliet, she dropped to her death on the stage, every male in the audience wanted to get up there and die with her. What was her name?

  Veronica, that was it. She changed the spelling to Veronika; she thought it more exotic and she was determined to make it big in the movies. He hadn’t seen or heard of her since then so maybe she was still waiting for her big break. Film and TV work always sounded more glamorous than it was in reality. A friend at uni had got some holiday work as an extra on a film at the Gold Coast, and spent most of his time standing around in the hot sun drinking bad coffee and waiting to be called on the set. But he was paid hundreds of dollars for it, so it had to be worth it. And easier than standing on a roof for eight hours a day. Or juggling plates of pasta. Or making concrete. Or practically anything else.

  Reuben whipped out his mobile phone, dialled the number and made an appointment for Monday at ten o’clock. As he left the cafe, he smiled and waved to Nina behind the counter. She acknowledged him with a half nod before looking away. You can stuff your non-existent job.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Edinburgh Arms Hotel was a misnomer – there was nothing the least bit Scottish about its red brick, mould-stained edifice. A faded coat of arms on the sign paid token homage to its name.

  Inside it was much the same as any other suburban pub on a Saturday afternoon. Cool and dim, infused with the odour of beer and stale carpet, evoking a sense of refuge, that in here you could forget your problems and temporarily suspend your other life.

  Reuben ordered a beer and perched on a stool in the Sportsman’s Lounge. After Carlene had left for her refugee support group meeting, he went for a walk and found his footsteps leading him to the Edinburgh Arms. He only intended to have a lemon squash to quench his thirst, but once inside he succumbed to its lure.

  He looked around at the three large screen TVs. Horse racing, rugby and motor racing, catering for all tastes. The clientele were mostly male, solitary figures like himself or huddled in small groups, someone occasionally letting forth a yell as his horse or team came home.

  It had taken him some time after his release from prison to become used to humanity en masse. Everywhere he went people rushed towards him, pushed past him and encroached on his personal space, barely aware of his existence. Sometimes when it became too much, he’d retreat to the bedroom after arriving home and bury himself in a Mandrake comic with the Boston Stranglers, his favourite band, on his iPod.

  Mandrake the Magician had been his comfort and his escape since he was eight, when ‘Old Albert’ next door had given him his stash of old Mandrake comics. As someone who enjoyed, as one teacher put it, ‘a rich inner life’, Mandrake’s method of outwitting his enemies by hypnotising them and making them see illusions appealed to Reuben. He’d often fantasised about doing the same to Boofhead Barker and his gang, and as he grew older, to anyone who made his life difficult. Carlene thought his obsession with Mandrake childish, but she couldn’t help sticking her head through the door periodically and asking, ‘Are you all right, honey?’ with the worried expression of a mother who suspects her teenage son of plotting suicide in his bedroom.

  But here in the Edinburgh Arms, the atmosphere was just right. He could revel in his solitude, yet still feel a part of the human race. He took a long, appreciative sip of his beer. How many times, while he was inside, had he imagined this, conjured up the bittersweet malty taste of it on his tongue so vividly that he could almost swear he was having a beer, sitting there in his cell. His ability to transport himself to another world was one of the few things that had kept him sane.

  He was just debating whether to have another beer when he felt a thump on his shoulder.

  ‘If it isn’t Littledick – the people you run into when you don’t have a gun!’

  A body slid itself onto the stool opposite Reuben and set a beer on the table. Shaved head, protuberant milky-blue eyes, wide, thin-lipped mouth. The face bore a remarkable resemblance to a bullfrog, right down to the folds of loose skin under his jaw. No one dared joke about it to Frank Cornell’s face. The open top buttons of his shirt revealed gold chains nestled in a forest of tight, sandy-coloured curls. The last time Reuben had seen Frank this close-up he was wearing the same brown uniform as everyone else, but he had no doubt that the shirt Frank was wearing now was worth more than Reuben’s entire
wardrobe.

  ‘Likewise,’ Reuben said. ‘What are you doing in this neck of the woods?’

  He forced a jovial tone. He and Frank had scarcely exchanged a few words during his entire time in prison – they mixed in different circles and Reuben kept well away from him – and he wondered why he was singling him out now. Don’t be paranoid, you’re not inside now.

  ‘Minding my own business, as always,’ Frank said. ‘I was supposed to meet a client here, but he stood me up. First and last time for him.’

  He drummed his fingers on the table. Broad and freckled, they were adorned with the kind of showy rings that shouted, ‘Rich wanker!’

  ‘Anyway, Littledick, I might ask the same about you.’

  ‘Just having a quiet drink. I only live a few streets away.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember now. Your old girl almost wiped me out the other day, pulling out in front of me.’

  ‘That was my mother-in-law,’ Reuben said. ‘I’m sorry, she’s a maniac on the road.’

  ‘Mother-in-laws are maniacs, full stop,’ Frank said. ‘I’ve had three of ‘em myself.’

  He took a swig of his drink, leaned back and studied the TV screen. His shirt strained against the beginnings of a paunch. He looked for all the world as if he’d settled in for a cosy drink with a good mate.

  He downed the rest of his beer in one gulp and nodded at Reuben’s empty glass. ‘Same again?’

  Reuben hesitated. If he allowed Frank to shout him this beer, he’d have to buy another round to return the shout and by that time, his body, unused to large quantities of alcohol…