Shred of Evidence

I don’t care.

I’m in a psychological flap, I know. Tom’s not having an affair. He’s not. He’s working late. That’s all there is to it. Working late at the office. They’re busy this time of year. Christmas looming. I should know that after all these years. And there’s the new contract with McKimmey and Bradbury. Jesus, what am I thinking?

I don’t care.

Crunched in my seat. Bookended by a pair of City bankers in matching suits. Every time the train jostles them I get a waft of stale sweat. In front of me, a big guy in a turban, a head taller than the other commuters crowded around him. Nice eyes. Oh, yes. Very nice. Bet his suit smells brand new.

The Tube. London. How does a girl from Leuchars end up in a place like this? I want to go home. I do? Get real. I can’t go home after all this time.

Tom, you bastard. Blink back a tear. Can’t cry here with all these disinterested people around. Where’s the fun in that? God, no, I want an audience thank you very much. Not that I care.

The only audiences I get these days are the dead. Not much response from them. Bite their toes, they don’t so much as twitch. Two months I’ve worked there now. It’s a good job. I thought it would make me morbid. But it hasn’t.

Tom had spotted the advertisement. A dead quiet job for you, he said.

What’s that? I asked him.

Mortuary attendant.

Just because he found it so amusing, I applied for it. And got it. Benefits of a science degree. That shut him up.

No manners that woman opposite. Thinks I can’t see her staring through the ruck of bodies. Bug-eyed. Looks like she’s about to throw up or something. Had a heavy night, darling? Well, watch your step cause I’m not about to be messed with.

My husband’s having an affair. Well, I don’t care.

Eight ten. So says the watch, but I think it’s stopped, for crying out loud. Shake the damn thing and get nothing but a funny look from the guy on my right. Switch position. Lean on my left buttock. Guy on my left thinks I’m coming on to him. Can’t win. Can’t bloody win. Men. They make you cry and then they make you cry.

Put the watch back on. You never know. Leave it alone, it might start again. How scientific is that?

Best men are the corpses I have to deal with. No, that’s not fair. Tom can be considerate when he wants to be. Usually means there’s football coming up on TV or he wants me to make him a lamb curry.

Probably started around the time I got the job, if you must know. Started off with him not wanting to have sex. Believe that? Tom saying no? A likely story. Knew he was up to something. Tired, he said. Some excuse. Pardon me oh light of my life, I reminded him. You like sex when you’re tired. He just rolled over and fell asleep. Or pretended to fall asleep. I lay beside him and, well, I hate to admit it, but I let one loose. Quiet, but my goodness did it stink. I had to get up. Get some fresh air. He didn’t budge so I guess he really was asleep.

I crawled back into bed and tried to wake him up. Sort of snuggled up to him and gave him a hefty squeeze. Nothing. I moved my hand up to his nipple and flicked it. Still nothing. I pinched it and he snorted and turned on his back and started to snore.

Ah, baby. Two can play at that game. I turned on my side and snuffled like a demented pig. Didn’t work. The bastard didn’t wake up.

Sometimes guys have problems. That’s what Mary said when I told her about it. Her eyes were wrinkled when she said it. Christ, but she had pronounced crow’s feet. I figured she was telling fibs. Don’t bother humouring me, I told her. She shrugged with her lips and hand. Funny that, the way her shoulders don’t move like they’re supposed to. I wonder if…No. Couldn’t be.

Train stops and a bunch of people get off. I breathe deeply, as if I’d been winded and am now getting my breath back. Guy with the turban is still there, standing like a statue. He catches my eye. I look away. God but he’s cute.

Woman opposite is still staring. Fuck you, I tell her. Silently, of course. I’m not that rude and I don’t want to kick up a fuss in public. No. Fusses are for kicking up at home. Of course, I’m too polite to kick up a fuss at home.

I could kick up a fuss at the mortuary if I wanted. Nobody to hear me except Jekyll and Hyde. That’s what I call the two doctors. They’re both as mad as my Aunt Jean.

Tom, you bastard. I’ll kick up a fuss with you, darling. Just you wait.

Okay, so we’ve had sex a couple of times, four times maybe, in the last couple of months. Not a lot, is it? Not for a couple in their early thirties. Well, okay, I’m thirty-six, but he’s only thirty-one so, you know, that averages out at thirty-three-and-a-half, which is early thirties, isn’t it? I’m not lying.

Just had a horrible thought. Maybe I’m too old for him? Have I got those awful lines round my eyes like Mary?

You can’t stare on the tube. Doesn’t she know that? She’s still gawping at me. Well, I’m studying the backs of my hands, dear, having a damn good examination of my fingernails which are looking pretty fine even if I say so myself and I doubt yours look so good. Think my lips are curling. Muscles round my mouth hurt, it’s been so long since I smiled.

There I go, feeling sorry for myself again. What’s that Police song, from the album Jekyll and Hyde keep playing at work? Can’t remember. Something about something being a habit-forming need for more and more. Spot on. Poetry, guys. That’s what jealousy is. That’s the something. At least, that’s what Tom’s always telling me. There’s nothing going on. It’s all in my head and the more I think about it the more the idea gets ingrained. Doesn’t make it real, though.

Nothing like the Police around any more. Well, there’s Sting, obviously. Still at it. But, bands, I mean. Techno. What a racket that is. Thank God we don’t have kids. God, they’d be playing that crap every night and all weekend. Small blessing. Ought to be grateful. Not the kid—I mean, the fact we don’t have one playing that rubbish. Although, I suppose a little boy, a little Tom would be not too bad. A girl, though. Never been broody for a girl. Maybe you could get used to the music. Never liked Jazz. Not until Tom introduced me to it.

Another stop. Oh no, don’t go. I should have reached out and grabbed him. Too late now. My lover with the turban’s gone and the centre aisle looks bare and lonely. Like me on a Friday night.

Working late on Friday. I ask you. Is that credible? Would you believe it? I mean, try as you might to trust someone, you just can’t figure that one out, can you? Who works Friday nights? I mean, apart from policemen and ambulance workers and nurses and security guards and cinema ushers and, like, barmaids. And I’ll be doing shifts once my probation’s over. But nobody else does. People who work office hours, is what I’m trying to say. People like Tom. They don’t work Friday nights.

And he came home smelling of Flower by Kenzo. I know, cause that’s what Mary wears. Nice. Buy some myself, but I can’t afford it. Course, if we had kids we’d be able to afford a lot less. That’s a point to consider. Something to be grateful for, like Tom says. Didn’t want to ask him how come he was smelling of some other woman’s perfume. I asked him if he was hungry and he grunted. I slapped some leftovers on a plate, microwaved it for twice as long as it needed and put the damn plate down on his lap. Should have seen him dance. Food all over the new rug. On balance, it was probably worth it. Did I burn your wee boaby, darling? Oh, baby, let me kiss it better.

Course he wasn’t interested. A man not interested in a blow-job? Mighty suspicious, right?

Next stop. Seem to be hanging about here for far too long. Opposite, Miss Wide Awake still eyeballs me. Like me, she’s got a couple of guys pinning her in place. Not wearing suits, though. One on her left is dressed like a gay social worker on a night out. Denim jacket, tight white t-shirt, Docs. The other looks like a pervert. If we had kids, I wouldn’t let that guy babysit. Glasses without rims. Cap. Shirt and collar under an old trench coat. Hands wedged in his coat pockets. Not moving, though. Just primed for action.

Maybe I should just ask him. Not the perv. Tom, I mean. I don’t care, though. But, well, who am I kidding? Okay, I care. I care a lot. Of course I do. You’re not married for fifteen years without caring who your partner goes to bed with. Well?

I should ask him. Course, he’ll just tell me I’m imagining things again. He’ll get all huffy and distant and I can’t bear it when he gets like that. Wouldn’t it surprise him if I came right out and said, look, darling, maybe our marriage has reached the stage where, really, there is nowhere to go? But I don’t have the bottle. Coward. Yeah, that’s what I am. Tom can see the real me. Anyway, why am I thinking about us splitting up?

It’s Tom that wants a divorce. There, I’ve said it. Well, he hasn’t uttered a word about it, but it stands to reason, doesn’t it? He wants to split us up and he can’t bring himself to go about it in a decent fashion. So he starts sleeping with somebody else. Well, maybe. Maybe not. It’s so hard to tell. Maybe he’s just working late like he says.

I don’t know. I don’t want to think I’m being blind. The signals are all there. Going off sex. And the clues. The perfume. The perfume Mary wears. Of course, lots of women wear that particular perfume. Not just Mary.

That cow is still staring. Maybe there’s something the matter. Maybe, oh my Christ, maybe I’ve got dirt streaked across my face. Bloody hell. The sweat’s dripping down my back. Pooling in my bra strap. I’ve got some great dirty mark on my face. That’ll be it. No wonder she’s staring at me. Just run my hand quickly over my cheeks. Again. Don’t feel anything. Snap the handbag open and pull out the mirror. Lipstick. Got to be seen to be using it for a justifiable reason. Not to see if my face is a mess. What kind of impression would that create? Hey, there’s not a damn mark on it. I look okay. Pretty good, actually. Don’t know where all this self-doubt crept in. Tom’s a lucky bastard.

So what’s she staring at?

Just about everybody’s off at the next stop. Including the suit on my right. I inch my backside along the seat. Another couple of stops and I’m out of here. Old goggle eyes over there is obviously here for the long haul.

Guy on my left leans over. I move my head away from him. He says something. I squint at him, kind of looking puzzled. He glances opposite and immediately gets up. Disappears up the train. What a weirdo.

The pervert opposite pushes his glasses higher up his nose. He nods. Just looking at him, my stomach feels dodgy. Like I’ve eaten half-a-dozen burgers. I return his nod and shift my gaze to my watch. Gonna be early again. Still. Better that than…

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that the weirdo’s back. He’s brought a guard with him. They’re not coming into the compartment. They’re standing behind the door gesticulating at me. Trying to grab my attention. The hell is going on? The trio opposite haven’t seen them. Not yet. Me? You want to speak to me? Well, the guard’s there, isn’t he, so I’m not gonna get raped or murdered or anything like that. It’s safe enough.

I get to my feet and walk towards the guard. He opens the door and tells me to get off at the next stop.

But, I protest, it ain’t my stop.

The guard says, just do it.

Why?

Come on, the weirdo says.

When the train pulls in I see straight away that the platform is swarming with policemen. And they have guns. Armed policemen?

What’s going on, I ask the guard?

He shepherds me out the door. A policeman grabs me and drags me behind a pillar.

The guard is right behind me, the weirdo right behind him.

The fuck’s going on, I ask them, tugging the sleeve of the guard’s jacket.

He indicates the train with a flick of his head. This gentleman here, the guard says, noticed the woman sitting opposite you.

She was staring at me, I tell him.

Sure she was, the guard says. This gentleman noticed her coat was open. He noticed these, em, these bruises round her neck.

Bruises? You mean…

Woman back there, the weirdo says. We think she’s dead. Strangled.

I look behind me, towards the train. The pervert has stood up and is facing the platform. The woman keels over and disappears from view. The man who was sitting on the other side of her has vanished.

Well, I’ll be seeing the dead woman later. Play her that Police song. Hell, you’d think I’d recognise a dead body by now. Wait till I tell Jekyll and Hyde. They’re going to love it. Dead body under my nose and I never noticed.

I smile again. Second time that day. Well, things maybe aren’t so bad after all. As long as you can see the funny side of things.

I picture Tom and Mary sitting side by side on a tube train. Strangled. I laugh so hard my stomach pinches.

A policewoman touches my shoulder. You okay?

I look into her eyes. Stop staring, I tell her.