Nanowrimo Winner

[Total word count: 27,755]

Julie does not believe in Mercedes.

“Just the name, to begin with,” she said, “People who empty the bins in offices aren’t called Mercedes any more – not in this country, anyway. They’re called things like Ifeyinwa or Fowsia – or Kovacs.”

“Kovacs is a surname,” I pointed out, “It means ‘Smith’.”

“Alright, Anya, then. And then think about it from this woman’s point of view. She’s working hard, trying to get her job done, she’s got thirty more offices to do. The supervisor’s one step behind her, her mate is going come in any minute and ask where the plastic sacks are. This bloke in a three-piece suit and overcoat, completely pissed, smelling of stale beer and curry, starts rambling on about how no-one understands him because his uncle Jasper drowned at sea. What, so obviously she drops the bin, goes over just like that, and starts scouring the back of his throat with her tongue? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think it was quite like that, exactly. He told her about his problems. Then he listened to her problems. Then it was the next night that things kind of kicked off. But I see what you mean. ”

“If you ask me, I think this is just Geoff’s way of trying to hide the fact that he was dumped by Maureen for being too boring.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to her, but what’s most likely to have happened?”

“OK, I know, you’ve got a point. I agree, it is sort of hard to believe. Obviously this is Geoff’s version, so I expect it’s sort of slanted quite a bit. But there must be a core of truth in it. He told me I could go along to the Miramar for breakfast if I wanted to meet her.”

“I’m sure she would just happen not to be there that day. Are you actually going to go?”

“No, too embarrassing. Unless you wanted to come along too? That would make it more of a genuine social occasion and less of a suspicious investigation.”

I think she almost agreed.

“I quite like the sound of this regime of early morning screw with bacon and egg to follow,” I added, fatally.

“Oh no. I’m not acting out Geoff’s breakfast fantasies for you,” she said, decisively, “I’m a night person, anyway.”

Regretfully, I retired to the little desk in the corner and took out the old laptop.

“Have you got to work?” she asked, not altogether unsympathetically.

“Well, I am supposed to do an analysis of the latest Nielsen figures for Kevin. But I thought I’d get a thousand words in on Wenham first.”

“Your Nanoonanana thing? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that while you were here?”

“Really? I thought you said you hoped we could sort of work on it together?”

She grimaced.

“When I said that I meant more than just being in the same room. But it’s not going to happen, is it? Not now. Now, frankly, I’d rather you just got it out of your system as soon as possible, without me knowing any more about it. Sorry. Carry on, though, it’s OK – I’m not that bothered.”

“No, no.” With a slight sigh I opened up the Nielsen data.

Once again Kevin had landed me with a job that took much longer than I might have expected. A national analysis wasn’t too bad, but repeating the exercise for each region, and trying to draw correspondences between Nielsen regions and Behemoth regions, and Nielsen trips and Behemoth periods: and then repeating that exercise again for Major Multiples, Symbol Independents, and what have you, was a lengthy and completely pointless process. While national figures were fairly reliable, the fine breakdowns had too great a margin for error to be any real use – as I had explained in vain to Kevin.

“OK, well I’m going to bed,” said Julie eventually, and she did.

It took me another half an hour to finish off, and then, after hesitating for a moment, I opened up Wenham for a quick look.

“I’ve brought you some grapes,” said Lady Jane, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to eat them: their value is purely phatic and conventional.”

Charlie looked up at her, sitting by his bedside.

“I’m, er, I’m sorry.” he said.

“What for? The only thing you should regret is not putting your seatbelt on. Most unprofessional. The roll bars on those cars are quite effective: if you’d had your belt on, or if you hadn’t tried some kind of leap out of your seat at the last moment, you would have got away with a few cuts and bruises and a sore neck, like Fenella.”

Charlie grunted.

“I suppose at least this means she’s in the clear,” he said, “She wouldn’t try to murder herself.”

Lady Jane shook her head in parodic sadness.

“Charlie, Charlie,” she said, “Come now. If anything it’s rather incriminating. If you’re setting out to kill someone, you choose a method that is at least highly likely to work. But interfering with the brakes on someone’s car? You can’t tell when the brakes are actually going to fail. It might happen in circumstances that are completely safe, or when someone else is driving the car. There’s a good chance the driver will be able to stop safely anyway, especially round Wenham, where the roads are straight, flat, and not very busy. If there is some kind of accident, it’s actually quite unlikely to be fatal: more likely running into a ditch, or a glancing collision. Even a head-on prang into the back of a lorry is quite likely to be survived – assuming the people in the car are wearing seatbelts.”

“So if you were setting out to kill Fenella, you probably wouldn’t choose to mess about with her brakes. On the other hand, if she wanted to make it look as if she was on the victim list, in order to divert suspicion, a showy but fairly risk-free car crash would be a good choice.”

Charlie grunted again.

“I can’t believe it’s like that,” he said, “If she was setting out to have an accident, she wouldn’t have made such a point of giving me a lift – would she?”

Lady Jane merely frowned.

“Do what the doctors tell you, Charlie,” she said, “Get well soon. I need you back.”

I’m very relieved to find that Charlie isn’t dead after all: it will save me a lot of re-thinking. On the other hand, Fenella isn’t dead either, which is going to require a lot of re-thinking, and another means of death. Still, it’s all more words, isn’t it?

“Your visitor has gone?” asked the nurse, a slender, olive-skinned young girl. “She is a beautiful lady.”

“Yes,” agreed Charlie, “She’s my boss. I dunno – sometimes we seem to understand each other perfectly, and then it turns out we were actually thinking something completely different. Do you know what I mean?”

“Of course,” said the nurse, “You know men are from Mars and women are from Venus, they say.”

“Maybe that’s it, er… sorry I didn’t get your name?”

“Mercedes.” said the nurse with an engaging smile.

No, come on, I’m wasting time now. I save, exit, and switch off, and turn round. At once, my blood boils.

Julie has cleared the table where we ate dinner a few hours before; cleared it of everything, that is, except the empty wine bottle. Rawnsley Estate Cabernet/Merlot, since you ask, weighing in at a hefty 14.5% . I grip the edge of the chair hard and try to stay calm.

You may think, gentle reader, that I am a trifle unreasonable about this bottle thing. Is it such a big deal? No, indeed not, but it is the very triviality of the thing that makes it so maddening. If she can’t see that it is normal, rational behaviour to take the damned bottle off the table; if it doesn’t offend her sense of tidiness and completeness, could she not just do it for me? Just this tiny favour of picking up the bottle along with the plates? Is it that much to ask?

But no. No reason has ever been adduced for the leaving of the bottle, no pretext, no excuse. No defence has been put forward. And yet, she clings to the practice as if it were the central tenet of her religion.

I stand up. What I should like to do is pick up the bottle and throw it violently against the wall. I will not do that, gentle reader, don’t worry: I’m not that much of a nutcase. The thought of clearing up the glass afterwards is enough of a deterrent for me, never mind the explanation; because although I am furious with Julie, although I feel a keen desire to punish her, there is some timidly rational corner of my mind which does not much fancy the task of explaining to her why I smashed the wine bottle against the wall.

However, to relieve my feelings slightly, I pick up the bottle and wave it around like some angry tribesman with his war-club. I mime the action of smashing it on the edge of the table two or three times, emitting small, vole-like sounds of fury.

“What the hell are you doing?” asks Julie coldly, standing in the doorway with folded arms.