Best Eaten Cold Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  - Prologue

  - Coming Home

  - Family Life

  - Ghosts of Puglia

  - Timing is Everything

  - The Best Laid Plans

  - Just the Job

  - Giving in

  - The Old Country

  - Breaking Point

  - Blast from the Past

  - Love and Protests

  - A Clean Bill of Health

  - The End of the Beginning

  - It Ain't Over 'til it's Over

  - The Lighting of a Fire

  - The Slippery Slope

  - Cry for help

  - Mother-in-law's Tongue

  - Strange Bedfellows

  - I Talk to God but the Sky is Empty

  - So Little Time

  - Too Late

  Part 2

  - The World Keeps Turning

  - Glistening Prizes

  - Going Back Home

  - Take the Money or ...

  - Ink and Tears

  - Two Halves Don't Make a Whole

  - Toyboy

  - That Doesn't Make Sense

  - A Monster Reborn

  - The Beginning of the End

  - Thin Ice

  - A Simple Exchange

  - Not This Time

  - The Walls Close In

  - Roll Away the Stone

  - Redemption

  - All Roads Lead to Rome

  - Is That All?

  Reviews

  The Old Orchard by Tony Salter

  About the author

  Thank

  Copyright

  BEST EATEN COLD

  Tony Salter

  For Gro

  Prologue

  Had he moved? Was she imagining it?

  The girl in the blue jeans stood up, cramp searing through her right thigh. How long had she been sitting there, still as a rock? Three hours? Four?

  A pathetic grey dawn crept into the kitchen as she walked over to the body. He wasn't dead; she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the mist of his breath ebbing and flowing on the tiles. Amazing how he could still be stubbornly holding onto life.

  The hammer lay next to him in a pool of black blood. It would be covered with her fingerprints, but the whole house was covered with them, so it probably made no difference. His hands twitched rhythmically every four or five seconds as though from a regular, repetitive electric shock.

  Brain damage or recovering consciousness? An important difference.

  There was no time for weakness and indecision. She'd been working towards this moment for weeks and everything was prepared. If he woke up, there would never be another chance.

  Finding the money was the first lucky break she could remember in years. Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and ten pounds in small notes – she'd counted it over and over. The stupid man didn't even trust the banks.

  All that money, stuffed into carrier bags and hidden under a loose floorboard. It was enough for her to make a clean escape, to build a new life and to start again.

  Looking at him now though, her strength and resolve began to fade away and the old fear returned; familiar icy fingers knew just where to squeeze to lock her in place. She could never forget the consequences of previous defiances. Even as a small child, she'd learned the value of obedience. Each time she'd tested the limits of that obedience, she'd learned – or rather she'd been taught – that the boundaries were absolute and unchanging. His way was the only way.

  There had been times – especially after her mother had died – when she'd lost control; her rage and frustration seeking release through small acts of resistance. The punishments which followed weren't only painful. They were also degrading and humiliating in ways which intensified her feelings of worthlessness. How could someone like her dare to hope for a bright future?

  She looked down on him once more and her decision was suddenly clear.

  Enough. Whatever happened to her afterwards, enough was enough.

  He must never be allowed to abuse and degrade her again. Not her nor anyone else. She would stop him. She would finish it here and now and then she would build a life for herself where no-one was in a position to control her.

  She would call the shots and others would follow.

  Something physical had snapped inside her. He had abandoned his basic responsibilities and betrayed the most important primal trust. Trust could no longer be part of her life. That was how it must be. She was on her own. From now and forever, the only person she would rely on was herself.

  She took a knife from the kitchen drawer. The long, thin boning knife which was normally used to prepare the rabbits he sometimes shot – when he was sober enough to hit one. As she crouched down beside him, she finally understood her nightmare was coming to an end.

  She wasn't ready to push the blade into his heart and stop his life, but she would do what was necessary to make sure he could never hurt anyone else as he'd hurt her.

  It didn't matter if he lived or died after that.

  Coming Home

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  "How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015

  Before Sam was born, there were a couple of weeks when I didn't believe I'd ever stop being so fat and pregnant.

  After stopping work, time slowed as though someone had thrown it into a vat of treacle. I was excited and overwhelmed but that only made it worse. Excitement, frustration and impatience don't respond well to treacle time and Rupert didn't know what had hit him. He would come in from work and find himself swamped by an onslaught of meaningless, pent-up, semi-hysterical babble. Still, good training for the coming years, I supposed.

  I'd read somewhere that there are two distinct ways in which women remember their first pregnancy. Some have strong memories of the process and the journey from conception to birth: the pregnancy itself; the change in body shape; the scans; the 'shall we find out if it's a boy or a girl?' discussions; the 'will our baby be healthy and normal?' worries; the discomfort; the pain of the contractions; the white agony of the birth and all of the mess involved before, during and afterwards.

  For others, the slate is magically wiped clean when they hold that tiny, mewling thing for the first time; nervous, unsure fingers quickly learn and grow in confidence as the moment of truth when it moves from being an it to a he or a she kicks off a second wave of euphoria. Memories of the journey itself slip back into the past.

  I was definitely in the second camp. It's not as though I couldn't remember what had happened over the last nine months; it was simply that my mind chose to wrap it up in rose-tinted cotton wool when confronted by the strength of my joy as I looked at our little boy, now cradled in Rupert's arms.

  Rupert looked at me with a smile. 'It's Sam, then?'

  'Sam, it is. And he's perfect.' As the words left my lips, I started crying and laughing all at once.

  The John Radcliffe didn't allow partners to stay overnight and Rupert left me and little Sam at around nine o'clock.

  I was exhausted, but still as excited as a Christmas Eve five-year-old and the night passed in fits and starts. I did get some sleep in between, but spent long hours propped on one elbow looking at the tiny little bundle lying next to my bed. I knew I should let him rest and had to fight my desire to pick him up and hold him c
lose at every opportunity.

  I woke from the edge of a dream to feel a hand gently shaking my shoulder.

  'Time to wake up dear,' said the nurse. 'I've brought you a bit of breakfast and a nice cup of tea.'

  'Thank you,' I said, looking over to Sam's cot to check he was real and not just part of my dream. 'That's very kind.'

  She helped me to sit up and set the tray in front of me. I was starving and feeling slightly queasy. Hopefully a little fruit and toast would help to to settle my stomach.

  'Have you seen your lovely flowers,' said the nurse. 'They're beautiful.'

  'Oh, how gorgeous,' I said, noticing them for the first time despite the fact that the bottom of my bed looked like a florists shop.

  'I've left them wrapped,' she said. 'You'll be going home later, so it's easier. Would you like to see the cards?'

  'Yes please.'

  She took the messages from the bouquets and put them on the tray before turning and walking away.

  I guessed Rupert's parents might have sent flowers, but the others were a mystery.

  My guess was right:

  Congratulations Rupert and Fabiola. Another generation of Blackwells begins. Well done. Love Virginia and John

  The first surprise was Rupert. He never bought me flowers:

  It had to be yellow roses. Thank you for being with me. Looking forward to being parents together. All my love. Roop xxx

  What a softie!

  The third card was a bolt from the blue and made my heart leap:

  'Well done Fabs. You're the first of us. Many congrats. Charlie, Amanda, Jen & Debs xxxxx

  I hadn't heard from the girls in years and had thought they'd given up on me. I couldn't believe that they'd sent flowers.

  My eyes were blurred with happy tears as I saw Rupert pushing open the double doors and striding towards me.

  'Hey babe,' I said, holding his hand as he looked down at his new son.' Thank you for the beautiful flowers. A first, I believe?'

  'Well, you've got to start somewhere,' he said. 'I tried to get some at the hospital shop yesterday, but they didn't have any yellow roses.'

  'Well, these are beautiful and I also have a lovely bouquet from your parents ...'

  '... who should be here in a few minutes ...'

  '... and, totally unexpected, from the girls I used to share a flat with at uni.'

  'Really?' Rupert said. 'I thought you guys had fallen out.'

  'So did I,' I said. 'But maybe not as much as I thought.'

  'That's great,' said Rupert, now only half-engaged in the conversation. He pointed down at Sam who had opened his eyes and was pushing his tiny, pudgy legs up and down into the blanket. 'Can I?'

  'Of course,' I said.

  The maternity ward was pleasant enough as hospital wards go – friendly staff and a decent group of fellow newbies – but I was happy to go home. It was the start of the real thing. Rupert and I needed to do things by ourselves without a safety net. We were terrified, of course, but kept reminding ourselves that we were reasonably sensible people and we weren't the first parents to go through this.

  My only slight worry was Rupert's mother who lived only a few miles away. I was convinced she didn't think much of me at the best of times and it was easy to imagine her 'just popping by' once or twice a day and sticking her oar in. I didn't want that to happen. This was something we needed to manage by ourselves. We would make mistakes, but they would be our mistakes.

  Rupert had promised he would speak to her and make sure that she respected our privacy, but I wasn't holding my breath. Virginia was a Home Counties, middle-class wolf mother; her slim, blonde and chic exterior neatly concealed a force of nature with the skin of a rhinoceros and a lifetime of training in getting her own way.

  Home was a charming, but tiny, terraced house in Jericho, which was probably the best place to live in Oxford. Central, but with a strong village feel to it and a mix of students, young families and a shrinking core of people who'd lived there for ever. Not as edgy as my old place in Camden but, then again, neither was I.

  All of the houses on our street were painted in different pastel colours and we arrived home on a sunny Saturday morning to see our neighbours from the blue side standing in the street, chatting and waiting for us to arrive.

  John and Julie were a few years older than us – early thirties maybe – and we got on well. They were keen to see the new baby and their three-year-old son, Jake, was the most excited of anyone. He was zipping in and out of view, running up and down the path waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice.

  I guess Rupert must have given them the nod about when to expect us because they'd blocked off a parking space right outside the house and had even tied a couple of balloons on either side of the wooden gate.

  'Glad to be home?' Rupert said, turning to me as he switched off the engine.

  'God, yes,' I said. 'I can't stand hospitals ... Feels strange bringing him back though.' I looked at Sam calmly sleeping in his baby seat. 'It's going to be completely different now, isn't it?'

  'Yeah. It will be. I haven't got my mind around it properly yet, but we'll be fine. One step at a time.'

  I reached forward, took his hand and squeezed it, loving his attempts at confident reassurance, but doubting he believed a single word of it.

  Sam was still tiny, and I'd only been in hospital for two days but, what with clothes, baby paraphenalia and all my beautiful flowers, there was a huge amount of stuff which needed to be carried into the house, and it took us a while to get inside.

  Rupert had the fridge well stocked with champagne and started filling glasses while John and Julie gathered around me and little Sam. Jake was hopping up and down shouting 'wanna see baby' and demanding to be picked up.

  The conversation was predictable and would prove to be the identical dialogue which would fill my life for the following six months. That was, of course, when it wasn't just me and Sam on our own. Our private conversations would be even more mindless, and totally one-sided if you don't count screaming for food or attention as a meaningful contribution.

  'He's gorgeous,' said Julie. 'Such a little squidgeable bundle. Can I...?' She reached out towards us.

  'Of course,' I replied, knowing I would have to get used to this. 'Here you go.' The transfer was less than elegant as I was finding it difficult to hand him over or put him down while still supporting his neck and making sure no bits of clothing or wraps were caught up in the process.

  John and Julie spent the next few minutes with huge grins on their faces – the same faces that were seriously invading Sam's personal space – muttering a string of inanities. 'Who's a lovely boy then? Is that Daddy's nose? He's such a cutie ...' Meanwhile, Jake dangled from John's arm, and stretched his hand towards Sam like the hand of God on the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

  Staying with the Michelangelo imagery, I did my best to keep a serene Madonna and Child expression in place as I silently screamed. 'Careful, don't drop him, watch his bloody neck, don't let Jake stick his fingers in his eyes for crying out loud. Did any of you wash your hands?'

  Meanwhile, Rupert passed round the champagne, I took Sam back with no visible panic or desperation, and we all raised our glasses. Rupert looked at me and said, 'To the two most beautiful people in my life. Sam and Fabiola. Cheers!'

  Although the baby-showing-off routine was amazingly repetitive, in many ways I never got tired of it. You saw the best side of people at times like these. They looked at the small, helpless child in your arms and wished him well, wished him a long and happy future. It was a basic human response which was pre-programmed into us.

  It was a time to forget all of the complexities of life – to forget your jealousies, your frustrations and your fears. A time to put them all aside for a brief moment to celebrate this new life and give him your blessing.

  After they'd gone, it was only the three of us at last. The real beginning of the next stage of our lives.

  'D'you fancy giving him a
bath?' I said.

  'You sure?' said Rupert. 'Wouldn't it be better if you did it this time? I've got no idea what to do.'

  'And I do?' I said. 'You'll be fine. I'll help, but you need to start at some point.'

  Lots of people had told us how important it was to avoid making baby care an exclusive mother-child thing and it made complete sense. Apart from protecting Rupert's feelings, I couldn't imagine being stuck with doing absolutely everything.

  Rupert filled the small plastic bathtub while I undressed Sam.

  'Is that the right temperature?' he asked.

  I checked with my elbow as I'd been shown. 'Perfect.'

  'Not too much water?'

  I laughed. We really did make a pathetic pair of first-timers. 'No. I'm sure it's fine. You're not planning on dropping him in are you?'

  'Just trying to get it right. Give me a break.'

  Rupert was a big guy, very physical, but he was gentle and controlled with little Sam who, at a fraction under three kilos, wasn't much bigger than Rupert's hand.

  I suppose it was predictable that Sam would start to scream as soon as Rupert took him and put him into the water, but I wasn't sure which of them looked more upset. Sam was quickly red-faced and struggling for breath but the look of despondent failure on Rupert's face was almost comical.

  'What did I do wrong?' he said, lifting him up.

  'Nothing, you idiot,' I replied. 'It's normal. Wipe his bottom and his willy with the flannel and then give him a cuddle. He'll be fine.'

  Rupert wrapped him neatly in a soft, yellow towel and paced up and down hugging him gently into his chest. Sam calmed down quickly enough and Rupert's expression changed to one of contentment and pride. 'You dress him,' he said, passing him to me. 'I'm worried I'll hurt him getting his arms into the suit thingy.'

  What he was probably worried about was making sure his little son became my problem again before he started crying, but I resisted saying anything.