Jessica Harper Uncanceled

Sue Townsend, as many of you will know, was a famous English author, best known for her hilarious and poignant Adrian Mole books. In 2004 she was one of the authors in the BBC’s End of Story competition, in which famous novelists began a story and you were invited to finish it. I was always quite pleased with my entry, although I thought I’d lost it long ago. Thankfully I found it recently, and I’m including it here so it doesn’t have to sit in a virtual drawer any longer. It begins with Sue’s half, followed by mine. Thanks for reading.

MY MOTHER WASN’T GOOD with children, she didn’t have the knack. Dogs were her thing. She trained hers to walk on their back legs and she put red satin ribbons in their hair. I used to take her favourite dog, Mitzi, to see her after she was admitted, against her will, to The Laurels nursing home. I would stand on the lawn opposite my mother’s room and get  Mitzi to wave her paws. My mother would stare out of the window from her bed and then turn  her head away and weep. Dogs were not allowed inside, and, for some reason, the old people were not allowed to drink coffee either.

My mother eventually died at The Laurels from  infected bed sores. I once visited her unexpectedly and found her being spoon fed cold porridge by a schoolboy on work experience. My mother’s nightie was open and her breasts  were exposed. I complained in writing but the owners wrote back to say that ‘my mother’s  human rights had not been infringed’. I won’t allow myself to get old and helpless. I want to  die before I’m sixty.  

I first met Anthony Adams on my fifty-ninth birthday. He came into the shop to buy a pair of  brogues. There had been no birthday cards on my doormat that morning and there were none at work either. I keep my private life to myself. I told Anthony that the brogues came in three colours, black, brown and ox-blood. He screwed his face up as though he were in pain.  Some people find it impossible to make a decision. He looked like the managerial type: tall,  authoritative and well dressed.

“Black,” I said.  

It was almost half past five when I went into the storeroom. The other girls had got their coats  on and were saying goodnight to each other. We don’t have to climb a ladder to reach the  stock any more; it’s done electronically, the machinery works, most of the time. But when it  seizes up an engineer has to fly in from Germany. Everything is complicated now, even the  weather.

When I was a girl the winters were cold, you were guaranteed snow and icicles. The  summers were always hot. I would walk to school in the morning and the sun would be  scorching my back. The important things in our lives were written down and recorded in little  books. We had a rent book, an insurance book and a post office book; you could grasp these  little books, open them and read them. And you knew where you were.

The Gas Board sold  gas and the Electricity Board sold electricity, and if you made a telephone call you were answered by a human being. It was a simple life, even in the towns. There were pubs,  cinemas, theatres, libraries, swimming baths, an opera house and the circus came twice a year  – we didn’t know that the animals felt humiliated and that it was cruel of us to laugh at their clumsy antics.  

The machinery brought the size eleven brogues down to me. I knelt in front of Anthony and  helped him on with his new shoes, he fumbled with the laces. I was anxious to be off, he was  pale and sweating and I was alone in the shop with him.  

“I don’t feel very well.” He said.  

My heart sank, an image of an ambulance crossed my mind and I thought about the paperwork I would have to fill in and send to head office if he collapsed on me. I asked him if  he would like a glass of water and to my annoyance he said he would, so I went into the staff  kitchen and ran the tap and waited for the water to turn cold.

Meanwhile I watched him on the  CCTV, his lips were moving, he could have been praying or singing along to a song he could  hear inside his head. 

It took a full ten minutes for him to sip the glass dry. He said that something terrible had  happened to him recently. To be polite I made sympathetic noises. Before I could stop him he  launched into his story.  

“I was lying in my bath reading the Sunday papers when I heard the doorbell ring. I live on  my own, no wife, no kids, they’re long gone – but I thought sod it, whoever it is will go away,  but they didn’t. That bell rang and rang and rang until I thought I’d go mad. So I got out the  bath, wrapped a towel round me and went downstairs. The bell was ringing constantly, like  somebody had got their finger stuck. I shouted “For fuck’s sake!” And snatched the door open.  There was a bloke on the doorstep, my height, my build pointing a gun at my head.”  

He said “Geoff Green?”  

I said. “No, I’m Anthony Adams: Geoff lives opposite at number seven.”  

“And this gunman ran across the road and rang the doorbell. Geoff came round the side of his  house; he was carrying a paintbrush with white paint on it. A few words were exchanged then  the bloke stood back a bit and fired the gun at Geoff’s head.

“Geoff fell onto his drive; he’d  only just had it paved. Some gypsies did it with slabs they nicked off the council – the man  with the gun ran down our street, jumped on a motorbike that was parked at the kerb and  roared off. I ran across the road in my bare feet holding the towel round my waist. Geoff took  a few seconds to die. Bits of his skull and globs of his brain were spattered on the flowers in  the tub by the front door.”  

He looked at me and said “Have you seen a dead body?”  

I told him that I’d only seen one, my mother’s. He said he’d seen too many.  He sighed. “Poor Geoff.” Then he said “I’m responsible for killing him.”  

I asked him what his name was, and he told me it was Anthony Adams. I said “Do you know  why Geoff Green was killed?”  

He said “No, and I haven’t asked.”  

I asked him if the police had caught the murderer.  

“No, they’ll never catch him – he’s a professional, a contract killer.” He said.  “Why was he killed?” I said.  

“I never ask.” He said. “But he died happy, he didn’t starve to death like some poor buggers  do who live only a plane ride from us.”  

His face softened, I saw what he must have looked like when he was a small child.  

I came very close to putting my arms around his neck and pulling his head near to mine. I said  “I’d gladly swap places with Geoff Green. I’m tired of living in this world.”  

He said “You look like a woman who squeezes every last bit of enjoyment out of life.” 

I told him that appearances are nearly always deceptive. I wanted to tell him that I would like  nothing better than to be allowed to fade into darkness, to not exist, be nothing, just to be a  speck that disappears into nowhere. But of course I didn’t.  

He said “I’ll take the shoes.”  

But it was six o’clock and the cash till had turned itself off automatically so I told him he’d  have to come back tomorrow.  

As I was locking up, setting the alarm, lowering the grill on the door and mobilising the  security system he said “Do you know how much he was paid? Two hundred and fifty  pounds.”  

I was amazed.  

“Two hundred and fifty pounds.” I said. “I’ve paid more than that for a week in Skegness. I  thought contract killing was something only the rich could afford.”  

“It’ll cost you more in London,” He said “and for V.I.Ps, but in the provinces, for a nonentity  that’s the going rate.”  

He touched my elbow and said “I have a drink in the Angel most nights, would you care to  join me?”  

I didn’t want his pity, I’m fifty-nine, grey and fat, and could have been taken for his mother.  So I told him that I had to get back, then I wished him goodnight and watched him as he  crossed the road and pushed his way into the bar of the Angel. Before the door closed I heard  the sounds of music and laughter.  

When I got home I didn’t bother with food, I walked straight up the stairs and put myself to  bed. I had liked it when he touched my elbow, it’s years since I’d been intimate with a man. I  was married to my husband for thirteen happy years, then I went up three dress sizes in as  many months and he left me for a girl whose thigh he could span with both hands. It wasn’t  only the weight: It took me too long to get over losing the babies. I forgot how to laugh. My  mouth wouldn’t smile. I grew tired of people telling me that life must go on.  

I don’t think I dreamt, the night I met Anthony Adams. I slept really well and I woke up eight  hours later, I’ve not done that for years.  

When I got to work he was there waiting at the door.  

“I’ll pay you for those shoes now.” He said.  

I was a bit flummoxed, I normally open the door easily enough, but with him watching me I  made a few mistakes, the alarm went off and the grill came down but I sorted it out. I asked  him to sit down when we got inside while I took my coat off and turned the shop lights on.  Then, when the till came on I put his shoes through. He said, “I tell you what, I’ll wear the  new shoes now.” 

He sat down and took his shoes off. They didn’t look old. He had obviously polished them  before he came out. He put his new ones on, did the laces up, went to the mirror and admired  them, quite openly admired them. Men don’t usually do that, they look through half closed  eyes, as if they happened to be passing the mirror.  

He handed me his old shoes and said “Can you put these in the bin.”  

I said, “You can’t throw these away, they’re hardly worn. Give them to Age Concern, they’re  only next door.”  

He laughed and said he would. “It’s a few years since I gave to charity.”  

He seemed reluctant to leave but I had too much to do, so I said “Thank you Mr. Adams.”  And he took the hint and left the shop.  

At lunchtime I went for a walk around the market and bought myself some sweet apricots and  a bunch of jewel coloured anemones. I went into Age Concern and his shoes were there on the  rack priced at two pounds fifty. I picked them up and examined them carefully; the leather  was so fine that I could see the little bumps where his toes had been. There were stains on the  soles that could have been blood. I thought, with a bit of luck I won’t be here this time next  year. Somebody else will be managing the shoe shop, another person will be living in my  house, and yet another driving my car.  

Before I went back to work I queued at the hole in the wall and checked the balance in my  deposit account. After I retired I wouldn’t be able to live in my house and run my car. My  pension had been stolen years ago by Robert Maxwell. I withdrew two hundred and fifty  pounds.  

That night I went through my clothes and threw a lot of stuff away. I found a frock I’d bought  but never worn; a cocktaily thing. I put it on and sucked my stomach in. Black sequins  glimmered back at me from the mirror on the wardrobe door. I searched through my shoe  collection for a pair of black high heels and slid them on. I folded my hair into a French Pleat,  made my face up carefully and drove back into town, to the Angel. I’m not a drinker and I  didn’t know what to ask for at the bar. The barman suggested a snowball; “They’re very  popular with the ladies” He said.  

I looked around the bar; Anthony Adams was sitting in the corner, alone reading the Daily  Telegraph and drinking beer from a pint glass. He was wearing his new shoes. I sucked my  stomach in and walked over to him. He folded his paper away and invited me to sit down. I  sipped at my drink, “Ugh, it’s slimy and disgusting.” I said.  

“You don’t have to finish it.” Anthony said, “Nobody’s holding a gun to your head.” 

**

My competition entry / my conclusion to the story.

“No, I suppose not,” I said.

He was squinting at a waistcoated man who was fixing a glitterball to the ceiling. The pub was heaving.

“There’s something I want to ask you, Anthony.” My hands were clutching my handbag so tightly that my fingers were white.

“Yeah?”

“This is hard to say, but what I’m looking for is someone to-.”

“Karaoke in five, folks!” boomed the compere. A cheer went up.

Anthony said: “I disgust myself.”

Everything inside me sunk. I hadn’t banked on confessions. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m a watcher. That’s what I do. Surveillance. I disgust myself. I just wanted to say.”

“Oh,” I said. My husband had spent most of our marriage reading books about espionage. Then he’d run off with a teleflorist operator from Portslade. She had an eating disorder: she was thin, the cow. “Who do you watch for?”

“I’m freelance. Could be CIA one week, Mossad the next. I watch whoever needs watching: Russian mafia, radical Muslims, fascists, Commies, bisexuals. It’s a dangerous world. It’s no good drawing your curtains and hoping these people will go away.”

I thought about how lately I’d started drawing my curtains as early as I could, even in the summer. People didn’t understand.

“Come and put your name on the list,” said the compere. “All you budding Britneys, you talented Timberlakes, you…” He tailed off, his alliteration spent.

“It’s your job I wanted to talk to you about,” I said.

“Not much to say. I make a positive ID on the client, then Client Services go round and make the client risk-neutral. Shoot the client in the head, basically. But half the time the shooters go to the wrong house – the stakeout house instead of the target. Bloody fast-track graduates. Clueless. That bloke nearly topped me instead, didn’t he?’

“And you don’t know what Geoff Green had done?”

“Couldn’t have been anything major for two-fifty. He was probably a civil servant on the fiddle.”

“The government kill people for that?” I said.

“They do nowadays. Cheaper than a fraud trial. Sometimes I believe in the job, though: I put the finger on a Serbian general last week. You name it, he’d done it: rape, murder, genocide. You’d never have guessed it. He kept his Montego spotless. But that’s the exception. Usually I don’t know anything about them.” He drained his pint. “I only took the job to help me hate better.”

“Hate better? I don’t understand, Anthony? What do you-.”

There were deafening cheers as a young couple in tracksuits clambered onstage. The man made a V-sign. He held the mike too close to his mouth and said: “Wonderwall.”

The glitterball was spinning. It reminded me of some sad place I couldn’t quite recall.

I had to act now. My hands were shaking as I opened the bag and removed the packet.

“Listen,” I said. “I want you to introduce me to someone who can-.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” said Anthony.

“What wasn’t?”

“Rosie. Our little girl. I was driving… The other driver was pissed. He didn’t even see us. Afterwards, I was strong, for my wife. But she never forgave me. She left me and took our other child, our boy. That’s when I became a watcher. I was full of hate. If God could take her, I’d take a few bastards who deserved it. Except that’s not how it panned out. I didn’t bank on the Geoff Greens. I disgust myself.”

He noticed the packet in my hands.

“What’s that?” he said, but the fury in his eyes told me he’d worked it out.

“Two hundred and fifty pounds. It’s just if I get ill,” I said.

“What are you – mad?”

“If there’s someone you know who could do it painlessly…”

‘I’m not a bleeding hitman!”

“All right,” I said. “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” I shoved the packet into my handbag and began fighting my way to the doors.

 “Right, they were shit, weren’t they?” the MC said as the couple left the stage. “Which of you ugly sods is next?”

I was nearly at the exit when Anthony grabbed my arm.

“Stop,” he said. “I just wanted someone to talk to. It’s always the way – you open up to people and then they ask you to arrange a hit. I just want someone to like me for who I am, not who I can have bumped off.”

“I’m sorry. Please let go of me.”

“Listen. I’m quitting. I made my mind up this morning, after I came in the shop again. I saw stuff in you: decency, hope. What people can be.”

“Oh, Anthony. You’ve got me all wrong.”

“The couple down there having a domestic – you got a tune for us, then?” said the compere.

As the spotlight swung on to us the beam caught the glitterball and I remembered what the sad place was: the rest home. Every Christmas that the staff hung up the glitterball marked another year I’d spent visiting mother, another year of bus rides through quiet afternoons.

“You’ve got a cheek talking about death,” Anthony said. “You can start over. Keep your two fifty and take yourself to Bognor or Skegness or wherever it is you go.”

“Oi!” called  the compere. “The gormless bloke and the mutton dressed up as. Are you giving us a tune or what?”

The crowd was heckling us but I was beyond embarrassment.

“Yes!” shouted Anthony. ‘We’re coming up!”

The whole place let out a cheer. An ironic cheer, I think, but a cheer all the same. I began to protest but Anthony placed his hands on my shoulders and put his face close to mine. His smell was probably just some man’s brand of deodorant with a name like Sierra or Sport 24 but it seemed like an exotic jungle and I let it sweep over me.

“Look at you,” he said. “You’re all lit up in the spotlight. Like an angel. That’s what I thought when I saw you bringing in the flip-flop rack. She’s an angel.”

“But I’m not special. You don’t know me. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” he said. “But neither does the bad stuff, does it? I’m not scared to give life another go. I will if you will. Will you?”

But he wasn’t waiting for the answer. He had looped his arm through mine and was leading me to the stage. The bodies parted like a sea. A sea of waving arms and inflatable hammers and car horns.

“What are we going to sing?” I called.

“I don’t know,” said Anthony. “You can be useless and still muddle through. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe it is.”

“Well, then. So what’s your name?” My answer was swallowed in the din. I noticed how the spotlight lit me up, like he’d said. I didn’t think I looked like an angel, but I felt that some part of me was returning, some part that had ebbed away many years ago. I thought how people wouldn’t understand any of this, and how this time I wouldn’t tell them.