Shred of Evidence

My mother still sends me the local paper.

Every week it arrives on my doormat, even though I’ve not lived in Devon for ten years and almost all of the names mean nothing to me. But this week it was different. There, in Births, Marriages and Deaths, was a name I recognized: Charlie.

* * *

In Allcombe, everyone has a summer job. Even the children have jobs: brushing the welcome mat outside their parents’ B & B, or washing foam-rimmed pint glasses in the concrete cellars of the bars. Toddlers help their mums get gift shops ready for the tourists—their hands reach around the picture boxes of fudge, one at a time; they stack them on the lowest shelves with the concentration of mathematicians. Payment can be a pound coin or the pick of the ice creams left at the end of Saturday.When you turn thirteen you move up the chain. You start making minimum wage, and you serve chips, or get a pink coat and lessons in juggling to entertain the grockles at the holiday camp. If you don’t fancy stinking of chip fat or you fail the juggling course, you wait on tables. And if you can’t balance a tray or remember the specials, you clean.

That was how I met Charlie.

‘I’m seventy-three with one lung and a medal,’ was the first thing he said to me.

We were standing in the reception of The Belle Vue, a family run guest house with twelve rooms, home-made desserts on the half-board menu, and facilities for the under fives. I had just turned thirteen, and after a quick interview with the owner, Mr Roper (one of seven brothers who all ran summer businesses in the town and were known locally as The Firm), had been employed to help Charlie out. One of the waiters had whispered to me that there had apparently been complaints from guests that their toilets were not scrubbed to standard.

‘I clean the ground floor and I’m in charge, see?’ Charlie had an ancient carpet sweeper under his right arm, and a tin whistle around his neck that was tied in place with a piece of red wool. He had a surprising amount of white hair, Brylcreemed into a quiff, and his throat, visible under the collar of his dirty blue shirt, looked like a length of knotted rope

There were only three rooms on the ground floor—the kitchen, the dining room, and the bar. ‘So I do all the bedrooms?’ I asked.

‘Cheeky maid,’ he said. ‘There’s your whatnots.’ He pointed to a blue plastic bucket by the leg of the reception desk. The bucket contained bottles, sprays and cloths in a variety of primary colours. ‘And here’s the key.’ He held out his hand, and I stepped forward. I could hear him take slow, wheezing breaths. My fingers slid against his palm. As I moved back he erupted into wet coughs; I waited for him to catch his breath.

‘Go on then maid. And don’t miss the loos. Give the loos an extra once round from me.’ He laughed.

‘Okay,’ I said, not seeing a joke. I picked up the blue bucket—it took both hands to lift it.

‘Kids,’ he sighed. ‘And get the mags for me, all right?’

‘What?’

‘Pardon, not what, miss. The colour mags from the papers. They throw them in the bin once they’ve read them. Just take ‘em out, put ‘em in your bucket, and bring ‘em down to me once you’re done.’

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Charlie turned and wandered off, carpet cleaner clutched under his arm, in the direction of the bar.

* * *

I cleaned first, using each product from the blue bucket in turn—Mr Muscle on the mirrors, Mr Sheen on the furniture. The bathrooms I tackled with a mixture of fairy liquid and bleach: I groped tangled hair up from plugholes and forced wads of toilet paper, sanitary towels and condoms round u-bends. Only then did I examine the bins.

Some of the magazines were covered in cigarette ash, or moisturising cream, or had chewing gum stuck to the pages. I didn’t bother with those, but I found a few that had been rolled up and placed by the bins, still shiny and decorated with the white smiles of whatever celebrity adorned the covers, and those I put into my blue bucket. By the time I had finished the last bedroom, about three hours later, I had collected five colour supplements and an out of date TV guide.

Charlie was in the bar—in fact, he was behind the bar, the carpet cleaner in one hand and a wine glass containing a measure of amber liquid in the other. The ashtrays on the Formica tables were full of stubbed cigarettes, and dirty glasses stood on the stained beer mats. It’s Now or Never was playing on the large flashing jukebox in the corner.

‘All done, maid?’ he asked me as I stood in the doorway. I nodded. ‘Got me mags?’

I produced them from my bucket, and he frowned. ‘Is that it?’

‘The rest were dirty,’ I said, and realised how that sounded. ‘I mean, they had stuff on the covers.’

‘Well you can rip them off, see? I’m not bothered by the covers. And…’ He shuffled closer, to the end of the bar, and leaned in, ‘…sometimes they leave the mags on the chair or the bed or lying about, but they don’t want them, see? So just put those in your bucket as well, eh? Specially if they’re about the Queen or Lady Di. I love a bit of royalty.’

I had no idea how I was going to tell the wanted supplements from the unwanted ones, but I agreed.

‘Good maid,’ Charlie said, swaying towards me. He downed the remaining liquid in his glass. ‘I’m just evening up the spirits,’ he said. ‘So they look neat. If you’re all done you can go home for today. Haven’t you got some young man to walk you home? Here’s ten pee—go and phone your beau to come and fetch you home. You can’t be too careful. There are some right scallywags in this town.’

He put down the wine glass and reached into the pocket of his corduroy trousers to produce a ten pence piece, which he threw at me. I missed the catch; it sailed over my shoulder, through the doorway, and landed on the carpet behind me. I turned to retrieve it and the door swung shut, leaving only the muted voice of Elvis as evidence of Charlie’s presence in the bar.

I didn’t have a young man, or a beau. I took the ten pence, left the blue bucket in the reception, and walked home.

* * *

The grockles and their luggage changed every week, but the job remained the same.

Nobody complained about the missing magazines, and over time my confidence grew so that I felt no qualms as I ripped out soiled pages, and claimed the ones that had been apparently abandoned around the rooms. Even glossy women’s magazines that were sitting on the floral print duvets went from my hands into Charlie’s. Although I never saw it, I could picture him sitting in the bar, listening to Elvis, a whisky in his hand and the carpet cleaner leaning against the table, flipping through articles on how to keep a man interested or banish cellulite forever.

I became adept at looking through people’s possessions, moving underwear and flicking aside condom packets in order to tidy up. One time, I opened the bedside drawer to dust and found a photograph of a naked man on all fours on a beige sofa, a choke-chain around his neck. I considered taking it to show my mates at school when the summer holiday ended, but decided that it might be missed by its owner, so I slipped it back between the pages and closed the drawer.

It didn’t bother me as much as what I found in room nine.

Room nine was occupied by somebody known in the holiday trade as a ‘lifer’; Mr McCarthy came to Allcombe every summer and always stayed in the same hotel, and in the same room if possible. From that description of him, given to me by Charlie, I was expecting an elderly man—someone set in their ways, wearing a suit that had seen better days, taking the air at the same time every morning and always ordering fish and chips off the hotel menu.

I didn’t meet him until my third week on the job.

I stared at his purple shell suit and white trainers, his short hair that had been gelled into a point and his hoop earring. He was in his room, crouching by the pink painted chest of drawers, his hands in his suitcase which was balanced on the matching footstool. When he saw me in the doorway, blue bucket in hand, he straightened up.

‘Have you got a problem?’ he said. I placed the accent as Liverpudlian. It had a twang that gave the words an unfriendly edge.

‘Chambermaid,’ I said. I lifted my blue bucket and pointed to it. ‘Shall I clean up now or later?’

‘Yeah… do it now, yeah, I was going out anyway.’ He slammed the lid of the suitcase and picked up his room key, slapping the heavy wooden fob against his palm as he sauntered up to me. I moved to one side and watched him until he had disappeared from my line of sight.

I stepped into his room and closed the door. Having cleaned up after him for the last three weeks, I already knew that he ate a lot of Mars Bars, the wrappers of which he threw in the general direction of the bin, and that he smoked a strong brand of tobacco, which he rolled himself. The smell was thick in my nose as I shook out his duvet and plumped his pillows.

I’d never found a magazine in his room; I’d assumed he wasn’t the reading type, which was why I was surprised to see the dog-eared corner of a glossy publication poking out from the lid of his suitcase.

After I had finished arranging the room I sat down on the duvet, in front of the case. I felt no guilt as I opened the lid and looked at the magazine.

It was an old colour supplement from one of the tabloids, and the cover picture was a black and white photograph of Princess Diana, looking as glamorous as a film star.

The magazine was in my hands before I stopped to think.

Underneath it, lying in the suitcase on top of a green beach towel, was a clear plastic bag. Inside it were small, mustard yellow pills; I estimated a hundred or more, each one bearing the imprint of the Playboy Bunny.

I closed the suitcase, put the magazine in my blue bucket, and left the room.

* * *

‘That’s a lovely lot of mags,’ Charlie said when I returned to the bar. He was leaning on the jukebox with a pint glass in one hand, half-filled with a clear liquid, and the carpet cleaner in the other. Heartbreak Hotel was playing.

I put the magazines on the nearest table to him, and he put down the pint glass to flick through them. ‘Nice to see Lady Di on the cover, where she belongs, she gets no blooming respect you know, not nowadays, not like a Lady should be treated, I would have treated her right, oh yes maid, I’m a right gentleman, me.’

The pills in room nine had been on my mind all morning. Charlie looked up and frowned at me as I stood there, trying to conjure words to tell him what I had found.

‘Get along then, maid. Go ask your young man to fetch you. Or do you need ten pee for the phone?’

I spoke as he rummaged in his pocket. ‘I found something in room nine… a big bag of pills in a suitcase…’

‘That there’s Mr McCarthy’s room, am I right? Probably headache pills. He’s out every night down the disco and what have you, so I hear.’

‘I don’t think so…’ I said, but Charlie was already pressing another ten pence piece into my hand.

‘Get along with you, maid. I’ll finish up the bar, don’t you worry.’

I was half way across the bar when the door swung open and Mr McCarthy stepped into the room. I stopped moving, caught by his intent stare. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘Stuff of mine’s missing. A magazine. Have you been going through my things?’ Nothing came into my head, not even the truth. ‘Come on, I know you’re not fucking dumb, you spoke to me earlier. Have you been through my suitcase?’

‘That’s not a nice way to talk to young girl,’ Charlie said.

Mr McCarthy’s gaze moved over my head. ‘She went through my private possessions,’ he said slowly.

‘Well, it wasn’t her, it was me. I opened your suitcase, took your magazine, and saw your pills, young man.’ I heard Charlie come up beside me. ‘So if you have a problem, you take it up with me, see?’

Heartbreak Hotel came to an end. There was a silence. Mr McCarthy and Charlie looked at each other.

‘Yes, I have got a problem,’ Mr McCarthy said. ‘And I want to know what you are fucking well going to do about it.’

Charlie straightened up and lifted his head. ‘What am I going to do? Whatever I want, boy. I didn’t fight a war to be threatened by the likes of you.’

‘My business is my fucking business, and if you—’

‘If I what? If I tell someone?’ Charlie said. ‘Like the police?’

There was a change to Mr McCarthy’s expression; a hardness in the way he pulled his mouth tight and tensed his chin that must have alerted Charlie as to what was about to happen. Nothing else could explain how he knew, just at that moment that Mr McCarthy took two steps towards him, fingers curled into fists, that it was time to act.

Charlie pulled the carpet cleaner upwards with the precision of a bayonet, and held it at the exact angle needed to collide with Mr McCarthy’s throat. The handle sank into the flesh just below his Adam’s Apple and Mr McCarthy’s head snapped backwards from the force of it; I heard a sound like the twang of an elastic band, and couldn’t work out whether it came from the carpet cleaner or Mr McCarthy. He fell backwards, on to the floor, his hands round his throat.

Charlie lowered the carpet cleaner. He erupted into a fit of wet coughing, leaned forward until he was bent double, and the carpet cleaner fell out of his grasp to hit the side of the bar.

‘H…help,’ Charlie said. He started to cough again. This time there was no gap in the coughing; I couldn’t see how he was managing to breathe at all. He pulled at the piece of red wool around his neck, and tried to put his whistle to his lips. The strand of wool broke, and the whistle fell through his fingers and on to the floor.

Mr McCarthy was between me and the door. He had stopped gagging, and his face was returning to a normal colour. It wouldn’t be long before he could stand. His eyes were closed, and I was sure they would open as I moved towards him. But they didn’t. I stepped over him, and pushed through the swing door to emerge from the bar.

I ran up to the reception and used the intercom system to tell Mr Roper about the events in the bar. Then I ran all the way home.

* * *

Not returning to the Belle Vue was an option that did not occur to me.The next morning, I arrived as usual and made my way down the bar. My blue bucket was waiting for me, along with a note from Mr Roper.

Can you manage by yourself today? Charlie isn’t feeling well.

I left room nine until last. When I had nothing else left to clean, I tiptoed up to the door and knocked on it, so gently that even I couldn’t hear it. I swallowed my fear and knocked a little louder. When nobody answered, I inserted the key, turned it, and pushed against the door until it inched open.

The room was empty. There were no Mars Bar wrappers, no stubs of hand-rolled cigarettes. The bed had already been made up with fresh sheets, and the suitcase was missing from the stool in front of the chest of drawers. Everything was spotless, even the toilet. It was as if the room had never been occupied.

I didn’t even notice the weight of my blue bucket as I made my way back down to reception and finished up for the day. My final job was to take out the rubbish I had collected; I left by the back entrance of the hotel, a black sack in either hand, and threw them into the small skip behind the patio.

As I turned to go home, it caught my eye.

Mr McCarthy’s suitcase was in the skip, jutting out from underneath the sacks I had just thrown in. The lid of the case was open, and some of the contents had spilled out: his beach towel was a rumpled mess of material, and a purple shell suit, which looked identical to the one he had been wearing yesterday, was lying next to it along with a pair of shiny white trainers.

I couldn’t see the pills.

Charlie never returned to work, so I never got to ask him what had happened. It wasn’t until I saw the announcement in this week’s paper that I finally understood.

Charles Edward Roper. Devoted father of seven. RIP.

Everyone in Allcombe has a summer job: even those people who don’t need to. That’s how a seaside town works.