Short Story: Last Request

Short Story: Last Request

M&S gave him the heaves. Especially the food bit, which he found particularly loathsome at this time of year. He liked a bit of turkey over the Festive, but he drew the line at seeing dozens of them, trussed up and dead-butt-naked in the chill cabinets. They pretty much resembled a crowd of bluish, goose-pimply backsides, all bending over ready to be slapped - and right next to the kiddies’ hats and scarves as well. Mind you, it was a safe bet that the turkeys looked better than most of the customers would, naked. But that was Markies for you.

Victor sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was sitting on a highly uncomfortable plastic chair outside the ladies changing rooms, while his wife Babs tried on bras. From time to time he could hear the hiss of aerosol deodorants and assistants saying things like, “Would you like to try the built-up strap instead?” or “No, it’s not you, it’s just that style.”

Victor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Soon. Soon he’d be home, relaxing on his black leather recliner with a large whisky. Spark out in front of The Bill, if he could manage to avoid Babs’ demands to do the washing up and only god knew what else. TV mag in his lap, and all his favourite programmes circled. Crimewatch was on later. Mind you, it hadn’t been the same since Nick Ross left. He sighed, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket to stop himself from scratching his stomach; he’d put on a few pounds recently, and had developed an annoying itch along his waistline, triggered by the chafing of his ever-tightening trousers. He could kill for some Lanacane. Come on, Babs. Get a sodding move on.

He tried to calm himself by imagining the peaceful view from his lounge window. The copper beech on the far side of the lawn, now leafless but still magnificent with its grey branches silhouetted against the night sky, a hunter’s moon shining through. A spider’s web, frozen, stretched across the ivy, preserved in ice for a few precious moments. Frost on the grass on a winter’s morning at first light. The potting shed, where…well, perhaps best not to think about the potting shed. It used to be his domain, a soothing, cobwebby refuge, until Babs had insisted upon having a large chest freezer fitted in there.

“Don’t be silly, Victor. You’re imagining things,” she’d said, when he complained about the racket it made. But he wasn’t imagining things. It was a monstrous thing, which hummed and buzzed incessantly. He’d pointed out that a machine like that must cost an awful lot to run, leccy-wise.

“Nonsense,” said Babs crisply. “It’s a Class A. Eco-friendly, so long as it’s full.”

“What on earth do you plan to fill it with?”

“Butcher meat, Victor. Turkey, gammon, leg of lamb, chipolatas, you name it. If it’s meat, I want it in there. I want to get that freezer well stocked up for the Festive.”

Babs was an unstoppable force. He knew that when he married her, and she hadn’t changed one jot, except…

Suddenly she was standing in front of him, hands on hips. A familiar posture, and one that irritated him. He stood up slowly, stretching his neck from side to side, and asked if she’d found anything suitable. No, there was nothing she liked. Nothing that fitted, at any rate.

He was surprised. She always bought her bras at M&S. In fact, she got everything at M&S. All her stuff. He’d learned more than he cared to about her spending habits recently, because since taking early retirement six months previously, she’d insisted that he accompany her on shopping trips. Major ones, anyway, like this pre-Christmas foray.

“You’re turning into a slob, Victor. Far too much time on your hands,” she’d barked. “Just because you’ve retired don’t think you can watch telly day and night. You’ve got to keep active, at your age. Think about your ticker. Keep the beef off.”

Victor watched her walking in front of him as they made their way to the food hall. Keep the beef off? She could talk. Not that she’d ever been an oil painting, but good grief, she’d let herself go lately. No wonder she couldn’t find anything to fit. Her navy wool-mix military style jacket had rucked up, to reveal a backside that seemed to be expanding in front of his eyes. As she walked, her corduroyed thighs rubbed together like some sort of Stone Age fire starting device. She swayed ponderously from side to side like an oil tanker in a heavy sea, her turtle-like head swivelling one hundred and eighty degrees at every other step, as she surveyed the shelves with her beady eyes, terrified of missing a bargain.

“It’s different for me, Victor,” she’d say. “I’m a woman of a certain age. We all put on weight after the change.”

‘And how,’ thought Victor, but he said nothing.

He kept hoping that Babs would lose interest in the physical side of marriage, but there was little indication of that as yet. Victor had never been an enthusiast. For as long as he could remember, he had absolutely dreaded the nights - and it could be any night, depending on her whim - when there she’d be, waiting for him in bed, arms folded, wearing nothing but her false teeth and an expectant expression. The routine was always the same. Gingerly, he’d lift the corner of the candlewick and heave himself under the covers. Meanwhile, the Teasmade steamed away on the gold-coloured Lloyd’s Loom bedside table, looking for all the world like a bomb about to explode, a small jug of off-ish milk with a beige beaded dust cover Babs’ sister Jean had crocheted and a battered tube of Hermesetas tucked in beside it.

She’d generally greet him with something off-putting, such as, “Make it quick tonight. I’ve to be up at half seven to get the urn on for the Thursday club.”

Or, “I’ve terrible wind. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that Kiev. Fetch me the Rennies before we get started, will you.”

Or, “That milk’s turned. I can smell it from here.”

Once he got under the duvet, she’d turn to him with a sickly smile, and her voice would change unnervingly, to a grotesque, childish whine. “And doth icko wicko Victor wuv hith icko wicko Babby?”

Feeling decidedly green about the gills, he’d force himself through a perfunctory delivery of the expected, but quite frankly wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t felt obliged. He wasn’t surprised when at last his body reneged. The fateful night occurred just after his retiral do at the local Toby Carvery. He’d had a touch of indigestion after eating too much Banoffee Pie, and that had finished him off. He’d blurted out a half-hearted apology, but…

“For God’s sake, Victor,” sighed Babs, heaving herself over on to her side, “It happens to everyone. You can get some Viagra from Dr Kilmore in the morning. Just shut up about it and go to sleep.”

But he couldn’t sleep, and instead rose very early. In the dim light of dawn he’d drawn the curtains back slightly, poured himself a cup of tea from the Teasmade and stood by the window, watching Babs as she slept on. Sleep had softened the harsh lines round her nose and mouth, and the light filtering through the voile curtains flattered her coarsening complexion. He remembered the way she’d looked that first morning of their honeymoon in Carnoustie, and felt desperately sad.

As she shifted slightly in a dream, and murmured something unintelligible, he felt a distant stirring of desire, and he sat on the bed beside her, stroking her hair back from her forehead. Disturbed by the creaking of the bedsprings, she awoke with a start, and sat bolt upright to peer at the clock on the Teasmade.

“ What the hell are you playing at, Victor?”

“Sorry, Babs. I was thinking of Carnoustie.”

“Carnoustie? At half past ruddy five? We’re well past Carnoustie at this hour of the morning, Victor.”

And she flung herself back into the foetid depths of the bed, and began snoring almost immediately. As he continued to watch her, he happened to observe her right arm, sticking out from the duvet at an awkward upward angle. The skin on the flabby underside looked mottled and…dead. Dead.

If only Babs hadn’t opened her mouth. If only she’d just lain there, pliant, accepting, uncomplaining…remembering Carnoustie, as he did. But she hadn’t, and that was it. Victor thought of it as his epiphany.

Afterwards – long afterwards – he realised that of course it was the serendipitous juxtaposition of the fleeting resurgence of desire, and the glimpse of the fatefully positioned arm, which set him off. At the time, however, he was merely aware that at that moment, an inner change occurred. An intra-psychic shift. Strange and powerful desires began to emerge from the darkest regions of his brain. Horrible, yet fascinating alternatives. Preferences, if you like. Preferences of a highly grisly nature. Preferences involving partners who would never answer back, or even want a conversation. Ever. Unless it involved an Ouija board, a medium, and some ectoplasm.

He experienced a heady mix of potency and shame as hideous thoughts and images thrust themselves willy nilly into his brain; giant versions of himself as a bronzed Adonis, unleashed on an unsuspecting nether world. Prising up gravestones. Rifling through mortuary drawers. Hi-jacking funeral cars. Leaping out in front of ambulances and smelling the burning rubber from their tyres as he forced them at gunpoint to screech to a halt and unload their grisly contents. He’d found himself paying more and more attention to medical and police programmes on television; anything at all with corpses. Anything that gave the faintest hint of what exactly happened to dead people. Eventually they all ended up in the crem. or six feet under of course, or even fired out into outer space, but what about in the interim, while they were still reasonably fresh? That’s the part that mattered to him. Avidly, he watched CSI and The Bill for clues, even Silent Witness at a push. And he took notes. Funnily enough Silent Witness was one of Babs’ favourites; they fell into the habit of watching it together over a late supper of cheese on toast, washed down with M&S chocolate drink mix. He had a suspicion that Babs had a thing for Dr Leo Dalton. Her eyes grew beady and she stopped chewing every time he appeared on screen.

As far as he was concerned the programme hadn’t been the same since Amanda Burton left, and besides, most of the corpses they showed all seemed to be well past their sell-by; so held no appeal for him.

No, his “perfect ten” would be cold and unresponsive, he didn’t mind about age at point of death, but they needed to be fairly fresh; and really, nothing less would do. He had no interest in anything green and whiffy, and as for the black and papery mummified ones with tombstone teeth and wispy strands of hair, well, forget it. Best pop them back in whatever crypt you found them in, and push the lid over, quick-style. Preferably with a large stake through the heart.

Obviously none of this would do. It was all very well wondering about something, all very well to want something – very badly – but there were certain technical difficulties in making the potential actual. Especially when it was illegal; not to mention beyond the pale of polite society. Imagine if he actually found a suitable corpse, and then got caught in the act! The embarrassment! He daren’t even think what Babs might say. His life would be even more of a living hell than it was now! No, he’d have to control himself. Cut off the stimulus. No more Silent Witness. No more Casualty. Corpses were out.

Repression was all very well, but it couldn’t be healthy, to be pent up all the time. He needed to find an outlet, else goodness knew what might start to snap under the strain.

What to do? He couldn’t imagine himself making the effort to find another living partner. For one thing, he couldn’t be bothered, quite frankly, and for another, he would have to leave Babs, because her beady little eyes missed nothing. He would never be able to deceive her. And the almighty fuss, which that would involve, didn’t bear thinking about.

Perhaps he should have a last ditch attempt at re-establishing some sort of conjugal relationship with Babs. It might seem less frightfully dire if he thought of it as re-visiting Carnoustie. After all, they’d been married for thirty-five years, and it hadn’t all been ghastly. He owed it to himself, if not to her, to give it one last try. And in any case, for the moment it looked remarkably like the least bad option…

***

Now his wife was in full hunting cry, bearing down on the crowds round the checkout using her loaded trolley like a pile driver. A large oven-ready turkey and a cellophane-wrapped packet of chipolatas trembled precariously on top of boxes of mince pies and tubs of brandy butter as they shot along. Victor trotted meekly behind, still lost in thought and scratching himself absently as Babs unfolded her Bags for Life and began packing the groceries.

“Victor! Leave yourself alone, for pity’s sake! And must you stand there with your mouth hanging open? You look like the wrong end of a turkey. Where‘s your wallet?” Babs rolled her eyes at the check out operator. “Men, eh? You‘re better off on your own.”

“Oh, don’t say that! I just got married last month,” giggled the sun-tanned check out operator, flashing a dainty diamond and opal ring. “We went on honeymoon to…”

Babs silenced her with a glance.

Soon. Soon they’d be home. Soon.

***

“I think I’ll just…”

“No, Victor! You’ll help me put this stuff away. Put the turkey in the freezer. The new freezer, in the potting shed.”

Obediently, Victor picked up the turkey and stuck it under his arm as he made for the door. “Babs…”

His wife was bustling with the kettle and opening a jar of Maxwell House. She turned as she said, “Yes?”

“Nothing.”

He could hear her tutting as he closed the door behind him and a brisk rustling as she opened a packet of Party Rings.

The potting shed was quite warm and smelled cosily of wood and earth. He’d always liked it out there, away from the main house. There were times when the racket in the house was intolerable due to hoovering, food mixers going full pelt, coffee grinders - you name it Babs used the gadget for it. So he couldn’t always relax properly indoors, and the shed had been a sanctuary. But since the freezer had arrived, with its persistent humming, vibrating noise, there was no hiding place.

Victor groped inside a Wellington boot and grasped the neck of a whisky bottle, which he’d always kept there, well away from Babs’ disapproving eyes, in case he required an emergency snifter. Which he frequently did. He lifted it out and placed it carefully on the wooden floor. Then he reached into the other boot and fetched out a glass, which he placed upside down on top of the bottle. He opened the lid of the freezer with one hand, leaned over and jerked the elbow of the other arm up so that the turkey dropped inside. Victor stared at it for a moment or two. It looked very naked. Obscenely naked, in fact. Its pale, faintly mottled skin reminded him of… No! Not again. He had to stop this.

Suddenly he saw Babs striding purposefully across the lawn and towards the shed. She was carrying a pair of kitchen scissors and a packet of chipolatas. He realised that his mouth was hanging open again, and he closed it abruptly, remembering Babs’ comment at the checkout. Did he really look like the wrong end of a turkey? What about the parson’s nose? Was that the wrong end, or the right end? And which end did Babs look like, come to think of it?

The door burst open. Babs thrust the chipolatas and the scissors towards him. “You might as well see to that lot, since you’re out here. And don’t throw them in holus bolus like you did last time. I want half for Christmas, half for Boxing Day.”

Victor grasped the handle of the scissors and looked thoughtfully at their gleaming blades.

“They’re perfectly clean, Victor. I gave them a good wipe with Bounty roll. Not that you’re normally that particular.” Babs frowned and narrowed her eyes as she spoke.

Victor glanced down at the open freezer. The turkey looked awfully lonely in there. He threw in the chipolatas with a devil-may-care flourish. The turkey wobbled and slipped down on to a bag of frozen petit pois, where it nestled beside a gammon joint and a leg of lamb.

“Victor! What did I just tell you? Half for Christmas, half for Boxing Day.”

“Eh?”

“The chipo-bloody-latas! Half for Christ…You all right, Victor?”

“Fine,” said Victor, distractedly. Babs squinted at him for a moment before leaving the shed, then shrugged and turned away.

“Babs?”

“Yes?”

“Do you ever think about…well, you know, Carnoustie?”

“Carnoustie?” Babs stood in the challenging, hands on hips posture which he so disliked. He glanced down at the turkey, and felt slightly nauseous.

He swallowed hard, and stared at a spider’s web in the corner of the shed window.

Wonderful how they…

“I KNEW that’s what you were after!” she said triumphantly. “I saw you looking at me in M&S, Victor. Your eyes were following me all the time I was shopping.” Babs looked at him coyly, and her voice took on a hint of the affected, girly tone, which he had always found so disturbing. “Not tonight though, I’m done in after Markies. Perhaps tomorrow night – after Silent Witness?”

She patted the back of her hair and pouted slightly. Victor glanced away, appalled.

“I know how much you enjoy it. Silent Witness, that is,” she added guilelessly as she turned away.

Then, over her shoulder, she said, “Victor?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you should go and see old Kilmore. Get him to prescribe something. Just in case.” And she gave him a meaningful look. “In case you can’t…”

“Yes all right Babs. I get the picture.”

Hastily Victor poured himself a whisky and gulped it down, trying to compose himself as Babs strode back to the house, her heavy footsteps trampling a trail across the white frosty grass.

He perched on the edge of the now closed freezer and reflected on his day. On his life. He could see quite a lot of the garden from the shed window. The lawn stretched across to the kitchen door. It was dusk, the kitchen light was on, and he could see Babs flouring the work surface then determinedly squidging sausage meat into submission for sausage rolls. They’d probably end up in the freezer along with the turkey and the chipolatas. Not to mention the leg of lamb and the gammon joint. And the roast for New Year. More dead stuff.

As the warmth from the alcohol travelled through his veins, Victor felt like the only living creature left in a dead world. He’d been looking at dead turkeys all morning. Right now, here he was sitting on a freezer full of dead meat. Even the ground outside was dead, albeit temporarily. Most of all, his marriage was dead. He was living the life of a corpse; little wonder he was obsessed with them.

He owed it to himself to make some sort of last ditch attempt at life. Fight the good fight. Seize the nettle. Or something like it.

Next day, he made an appointment to see old Kilmore.

“Come in, come in,” Dr Kilmore quavered. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

He tottered out from behind his desk and shook Victor’s hand. His skin felt dry and papery. Victor was aware that his own was sweaty and hot.

“Running a temperature?” Kilmore asked, frowning. Victor wiped his hands on his trousers.

“N-no. I don’t think so, Dr Kilmore.”

“Call me Uriah.”

‘I’d far rather not,’ thought Victor.

“ Let’s pop this under your arm anyway.” Kilmore produced a thermometer and shook it. “And let’s have a listen to the old ticker. If you could just undo a button or two…thank you.” He lifted the business end of the stethoscope, which was hanging round his neck, and pressed it against Victor’s chest. “Goodness!”

Dr Kilmore removed the stethoscope, walked painfully round his desk and sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. “I think we’ll leave the blood pressure for a minute or two. Let you settle down a bit. Lovely outside, isn’t it? I do enjoy these clear frosty days. So invigorating. Doing anything nice for Christmas? By the way, how’s your lady wife? She made some lovely sausage rolls for the Thursday Club last week.”

Barge on. Get it over with. “Fine, fine. Barbara…my wife…she’s fine…Actually I’m feeling a bit…” Victor coughed, and to his annoyance found himself involuntarily glancing down at his trousers. “I’m not…”

“I see…downstairs…not able…in that area…how distressing for you. Perhaps we should…” and the old man half rose from his chair, reaching for a box of rubber gloves.

“No, no…” Victor interrupted quickly. Not the rubber gloves. Head him off at the pass. Quick. “No, I wondered if it was possible…if you could prescribe something…” Good heavens. This was a mistake. He’d give anything to be back in his shed.

“Not Viagra, surely?” Dr Kilmore’s voice was testy. “I’m sick to the back teeth prescribing that stuff to every Tom, Dick and Harry these days. It doesn’t come with the bus pass, you know.”

Victor sighed heavily.

“So if that’s what you mean, I’m afraid…” Kilmore continued, “I’m afraid…” Suddenly his voice cracked. The rheumy old eyes opened wide, and there was a rapid, choking intake of breath as the head snapped back and he clutched wildly at his throat. His gnarled hands gripped the arms of his chair, and the frail body convulsed, and convulsed again. Then the balding head fell forward on to his chest, and the hands flexed open once, then relaxed.

Victor stood up. “Dr Kilmore? Uriah?”

But there was no response. The eyes remained glassy and open. Victor touched the bony shoulder, and shook it gently. Dr Kilmore collapsed forwards with a noisy outrush of air, mouth open, head turned to the side. Victor recoiled and drew back his hands in horror as the stethoscope slipped from the wizened neck and clattered on to the linoleum floor. The old boy had pegged out in harness, just like…who was it? Tommy Cooper. Not quite the same thing, but…

Cautiously Victor pressed the intercom button on Kilmore’s desk, and cleared his throat. “Er…assistance to Dr Kilmore’s room, please.”

Immediately there was a bustle of people in the room. An ambulance was called, and the body removed for examination. Victor knew the procedure only too well. He felt as if he was in an episode of Doctors.

A young man in a white coat took him gently by the arm, and drew him to one side. The name badge on his lapel read “Dr. Fyle”.

“You’ve had a terrible shock, Mr Slack. I must say you’ve coped admirably. Won’t you sit down for a moment?”

“Thanks.” Victor sat down heavily in a plastic stacking chair just beside the sink. “To be honest my head’s in a bit of a spin.”

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Please.”

Dr Fyle filled a plastic cup from the tap next to Victor. Some of the water sprayed on to his jacket.

“Sorry Mr Slack. Clumsy of me.” He dabbed at the damp patch with a paper towel.

“That’s okay, doctor.” Victor sipped slowly, and began to calm down. Back down to earth. He closed his eyes, and imagined he was in his shed; the frosty grass outside, the spider’s web in the corner of the window, the chill of the freezer with the lid open…the turkey nestling in the depths…Babs…waiting…Babs…

“What did you come in for, anyway? Anything I can do for you? And by the way – please call me Dustin.” Dr Fyle asked sympathetically.

“Just some sleeping pills,” said Victor, distantly. “Yes. I think I might need them. I’m feeling a bit traumatised.”

“I understand.” The young doctor reached for his prescription pad. “These should do the trick.”

They certainly should, thought Victor. With any luck they’d be just what he needed. His brain began to buzz with ideas, and he felt life surging joyfully through his veins, as he realised that after tonight’s Silent Witness, all his problems would be over! He would offer to get the cheese on toast ready for the programme, and he could easily grind down the pills and mix them in to the M&S chocolate drink mix while Babs had her bath and put on her night attire. Then, after she’d wedged herself into her recliner, wearing the full length velour navy blue kimono with the Velcro fasteners and the white piping trim that he’d seen more than once too often, he’d bring her a tray. She’d be so transfixed by Dr Leo sodding Dalton that she’d never notice the chalky taste.

And then he’d finish the job with some duct tape and a plastic bag. He probably had both somewhere in the shed, but best to pick fresh ones up from Tesco on the way home. Just in case.

He’d need some sort of hoist to transfer her to the freezer, of course, but again, he was sure he could knock something up from bits and pieces in the shed, and if not, there was a Wicke’s round the corner. And after all, Babs had wanted the freezer filled right up, in order to minimise the leccy bill; so, in fact, in a funny, roundabout kind of way, he could almost say that he was carrying out her last request.

Obviously, questions would be asked – eventually. In the meantime, nobody would be surprised to learn that Babs was taking an extended stay at a health farm. He’d have ample time to think up a decent cock and bull to give the police, and to remove all traces of foul play.

Dr. Fyle patted him kindly on the arm as he ushered him out of the office.

“I’m terribly sorry you’ve had such a shock. Hardly what you expect when you come to see your GP.”

“Don’t worry about me, Dustin. I’ll be fine, now I’ve got these tablets.”

“That’s good. Just pop in, if you need any more.”

“Thanks Dustin. But I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Poor old Dr. Kilmore though. Tragic.”

The doctor sighed and rubbed his hands through his hair. “I know. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to break the news to his wife. They were going to Madeira for Christmas. Really makes you think, doesn’t it, when there’s a sudden death. You never know who’ll be next.”

I do, thought Victor, as he tucked the prescription safely into his breast pocket.