Friends to Die For

Four

The following morning Bob made himself tea, and as usual, except in the very worst of weather, wandered out onto his terrace to admire the urban garden he had created. It might be tiny, but it was, he felt, a significant contribution to what he regarded as an oasis in the concrete jungle of central London.

Bob lived in Bishops Court, a Westminster Council development tucked away between Charing Cross Road and St Martin’s Lane, just where Covent Garden borders Soho. It was a kind of low-level park complex, unusual for a city centre, comprising three storeys of apartments accessed from shrub-lined communal walkways, and designed so that almost all had at least a small patch of their own private outside space. The lucky tenants inhabited possibly the most valuable public housing in the country. It was a good place to live. Particularly for an urban gardener like Bob.

Even at this time of year, there was colour on Bob’s terrace. Yellow winter jasmine and a couple of varieties of viburnum grew in the big planters around the perimeter fence and against the wall of his one-bedroomed home, multicoloured winter flowering pansies and assorted heathers filled terracotta pots. Tubs of daffodils were just coming into bud.

His perennial and biennial summer bedding plants, mostly pelargoniums and begonias, wintered in a glass frame in one sheltered corner. This year, in spite of persistent rain and the bitterly cold early spring, there had been little snow and ice and temperatures had only rarely dropped below zero. Somewhat surprisingly, as the climate had felt so miserable, the weather had remained temperate enough for even them to provide some ragged cheer.

Bob, carrying his favourite white china mug bearing in green the slogan ‘stop and smell the roses’, glanced up at the sky as he stepped onto the crazy paving he had laid himself many years previously. There was a break in the rain which had drenched the city over the last couple of weeks, and he was beginning to hope a fine spring might be on the way. Certainly this was a lovely morning. The sun shone with a still wintery brightness, and the sky was blue and clear, except for one fluffy white cloud just drifting past the Post Office Tower.

Bob prepared to savour that moment of satisfaction as he appreciated the little garden entirely of his own creation.

Unfortunately some of it was no longer there. The winter jasmine, and the other shrubs which climbed and were entangled with the fencing, the dormant vine, the tangled woody stems of the passion flower, the clematis and the honeysuckle remained, of course. But the majority of Bob’s garden grew in containers of varying sizes and shapes. Several had been removed. The small plastic pots of wintering pelargoniums that had been inside the glass frame were missing, as was the little fig tree which grew in a treasured blue ceramic pot that had been made by Bob’s son Daniel at pottery class.

Bob closed his eyes quickly then opened them again. Unfortunately his pelargoniums and the fig tree were still missing.

It was Tiny who found the note. Bob had been due to give Tiny and Billy’s terrace a clear-up that morning. Tiny had phoned Bob when he failed to arrive, and, upon hearing of his friend’s loss and realizing that Bob was more upset than he cared to let on, called round.

The note, encased in transparent plastic, had been stuck into the planter containing the winter jasmine, fastened to a spike the way florists attach cards to bouquets of flowers. The planter had fallen over, making it easy to miss.

‘Many thanks, love Alan Titchmarsh,’ read Tiny aloud.

He passed the note to Bob.

‘Well, that explains it then, doesn’t it,’ Tiny said.

Bob stared at the note. His expression was one of total bewilderment.

‘What’s Alan Titchmarsh got to do with anything, for God’s sake?’ he asked.

‘Not a lot, I shouldn’t think,’ said Tiny. ‘Though he does get everywhere nowadays.’

‘What?’ Bob looked even more bewildered.

‘Sorry,’ said Tiny. ‘Look, don’t you see?’

Bob shook his head.

‘It’s the same joker who nicked George’s clothes at the gym and pulled the Mr Tickle stunt. It must be.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Sure I do,’ affirmed Tiny. ‘You both got spoof notes, didn’t you? Yours from Alan Titchmarsh and George’s from Mr Tickle. On form, your stuff will be returned to you, I reckon. Just don’t do anything if you hear a noise in the night.’

Bob pulled a face.

‘Come to think of it, it’s pretty extraordinary that you didn’t hear anything last night,’ Tiny went on.

He looked around the terrace.

‘I mean, whoever did this would have had to climb up here from the walkway at the front. The wall’s not very high, I know, but it’s not an easy thing to do, is it? There are the climbers to negotiate, for a start. Then they’d have had to pick up your plants, lower them down the other side of the wall and make off with them. Impossible to think that could be done without a bit of noise. Didn’t you hear anything at all?’

‘I’m deaf in one ear,’ said Bob. ‘And I always seem to sleep on my good side, so I hardly ever hear a thing in the night.’

‘Right. Who knows that? Amongst us lot, particularly.’

‘About my sleeping habits?’ said Bob. ‘None of you. Those days seem to be over for me.’

‘But what about the deaf ear?’ Tiny asked.

‘I thought you all knew,’ said Bob. ‘Don’t I always try to sit with my back to the wall at Johnny’s? And you must have heard me ask people to talk into my good ear?’

‘Oh yeah. Now you mention it, I suppose we do all know, though I didn’t think of it until you said.’

Tiny clapped a big arm around Bob.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s another prank, that’s all. Sleep tight tonight, mate, and I bet you’ll find your plants are back tomorrow morning.’

‘I shall try to believe that, Tiny. It’s just the fig tree’s in a pot Danny made at school. Reminds me of the good times we had together.’

Bob looked away. Tiny thought he could see a tear in his eye.

‘Trust me, I’m a bouncer,’ said Tiny.

Bob had two afternoon gardening appointments which he fulfilled. He didn’t mention what had happened to anyone. But Tiny, it seemed, had spread the word among the friends, and had obviously pointed out the sentimental value of Danny’s handmade pot. Ari and George both phoned during the day and left messages of concern. Bob avoided their calls and did not reply to their messages. He really didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t avoid Greg, who turned up unannounced on his doorstep just as he was arriving home that evening. Greg and Karen were his neighbours, their flat only a few doors away from his in Bishops Court.

‘Just came to see if there was anything I could do, mate,’ said Greg. ‘If you need to re-stock I know a bloke who’s got a load of spring bulbs going cheap — that any good for you?’

Bob found it irritating that Greg was his usual cheery self.

‘You plant spring bulbs in the autumn, Greg,’ he said.

‘Right.’ Greg looked confused.

Bob wasn’t surprised. Greg was no gardener. As far as Bob was aware, his neighbour’s terrace was devoted to the cultivation of children’s bicycles, a plastic paddling pool and assorted debris.

‘Well, if there’s anything I can help with, you just shout, do you hear?’ Greg commanded.

Bob promised that he would and dispatched Greg on his way as quickly as he could, without, he hoped, seeming too rude and ungrateful. But he feared he had probably been both.

Then, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day, he made himself a bacon sandwich, even though he didn’t have much appetite, and watched some mindless television. He was an old soldier, for God’s sake. He knew he shouldn’t be in a state about a plant pot, regardless of who had made it. But he was.

While he was preparing for bed, Tiny called to ask how he was doing.

‘I’m OK,’ Bob lied.

‘Everything will be fine, I told you. Trust me, I’m a bouncer,’ said Tiny again.

Bob took a glass of whisky and hot water to bed with him and tried not to think about anything while he sipped it. But his mind was in a whirl. He couldn’t sleep and, in spite of being quite sure his plants were not going to be returned, couldn’t help keeping his good ear pricked for any sort of sound from his terrace. Once he thought he heard something and peered out of the window. There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything out there. He mentally kicked himself for being so ridiculous. Towards dawn he dozed off for a while. He was woken by his phone ringing just before eight. The caller was Tiny.

‘Any news? Have you got your stuff back?’ he asked.

Obediently Bob shuffled out onto his terrace, taking the phone with him. It remained the same as the previous day.

‘Nothing’s changed, Tiny,’ he said. ‘No good fairy has visited me in the night.’

‘Give it time,’ said Tiny. ‘Your plants will be returned, I’m sure of it.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’ replied Bob. ‘So sure you’re making me begin to wonder why.’ There was a sharp edge to his voice.

‘Hey, come on, mate, don’t start suspecting me.’

‘Of course not,’ said Bob.

He ended the call, a tad abruptly, and set about preparing to go to work. His first appointment that day was at 9 a.m. If it hadn’t been for Tiny’s call he may well have missed it. There were other people’s urban gardens to tend, and Bob was not a man who liked to let people down.

Mid-afternoon, Michelle called him on his mobile, having been alerted by Tiny, and suggested, just as she had previously to George, that Bob should formally report what had happened to the police. Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she, thought Bob.

‘I’ll help, if you like,’ she told him. ‘Not my beat — I’ve got far more important things to do nowadays, standing around on street corners waving my arms at blank-eyed bloody motorists — but I could put in a word to the right people.’

‘It’s only a few potted plants,’ said Bob.

‘You know you don’t mean that.’

‘Anyway, not yet,’ said Bob. ‘Tiny’s convinced this is another prank, like the Mr Tickle one played on George, and that my stuff will come back. I want to give it a bit longer. Another night, OK?’

The truth was that Bob had already thought about calling the police but he couldn’t imagine that they would be much help, or indeed that they would be at all interested, whether or not Michelle put in a word. The loss of his plants and that treasured pot in the heart of a city where proper crime, assaults, drug dealing, muggings and even murder were daily occurrences, was never likely to cause anyone much concern except him. And if the plants were returned then the incident would be regarded as another prank rather than a mindless act of vandalism.

Tiny had made a good show of being concerned, but who knew what lay behind that.

Tiny called again that evening.

‘Just try to crash, man, turn that good ear to the pillow, blot out the world, and hope for the best,’ he said. ‘I reckon you’re going to get lucky.’

Bob realized Tiny meant well. Or did he?

I knew I was clever. Ever since I was little. Only people never did seem to notice how clever I was. Which is why I’ve always been able to manipulate the world to suit me.

The missing plants and the Mr Tickle incident were just pranks — what else could they have been? But they were the kind of pranks that made everyone involved feel a bit uneasy. And that was my intention.

I wanted them all to be on edge, confused, growing increasingly suspicious of each other. That was my camouflage, the curtain of uncertainty behind which I could do what had to be done unseen and unrecognized. Their reactions were very important to me, and to my plan.

I wanted them laughing one minute and crying the next. They were my cover, my smokescreen. I didn’t particularly want them to suffer, all except one of them, but if it was necessary — and I feared it would be necessary — then so be it.

I believed in rough justice. I wanted rough justice. And I was quite clear, absolutely clear in my mind, of my own integrity. Everything I had done so far and would do in the future was driven by the wrongdoing of others. And it had all been set in motion by one particular wrong by one particular other.

If there was going to be evil, if there was going to be cruelty and anguish, danger and destruction, then it wouldn’t be down to me. I am the victim in all this, that’s the truth of it. I have suffered far worse agony in my life than I could ever imagine inflicting on another human being. But I was going to try.

I had already begun, sitting on that bench by the river on the night it all started, to formulate a plan. Over the following weeks I fine-tuned it until I was sure it would deliver the desired result.

These ‘pranks’, these more or less harmless pranks, were only the beginning.

And so, on my knees I prayed to Almighty God to share with me the omnipotence of his wrath, the strength to cause torment beyond endurance, and the might to wreak the havoc I sought to inflict.

I am as one with God. As before so shall it be again.

Mine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever.

By the following morning, like magic, and exactly as Tiny had predicted, only twenty-four hours late, it seemed that all Bob’s plants had been returned, replaced on his terrace almost exactly as they’d been before, along with a second plastic-encased note.

Bob called Tiny with the good news.

‘There, what did I tell you?’ said the big man.

‘OK. You were right. I still don’t like it though.’

‘Oh, come on, Bob. Where’s that cockney sense of humour of yours? It was just a joke.’

‘Ummm. And we don’t know who’s responsible, do we? Or what they may do next.’

‘Look. It’s not been anything serious...’

Bob interrupted, repeating his barbed comment of the previous day: ‘You were very sure I’d get my stuff back, weren’t you, Tiny?’

‘I certainly was. True to form, I reckoned.’

This time if Tiny picked up on any hidden implication in Bob’s remark then he chose to ignore it.

Bob paused before deciding to persist.

‘Look, I’m going to ask you outright, no more pussyfooting around,’ he said. ‘Was it you, Tiny? Did you do it? Did you take my plants?’

‘No I bloody didn’t,’ Tiny shot back at him. ‘Hey, don’t go round accusing me, mate. I was your good Samaritan, remember?’

‘Ummm. Look, it has to be someone I know, doesn’t it? Someone who knows me and my place well enough to be able to do this.’

‘Could be anyone.’

‘I don’t have many mates, Tiny. George and I are both Sunday Clubbers. Looks like whoever played these tricks on us is one of the group. And somebody agile enough to climb on and off my terrace.’

‘It’s not very high off the walkway. Probably rules out Marlena though.’

‘She could have paid someone to do it.’

‘For God’s sake, Bob.’

‘OK. What about George then? He’s fit. He’s always at the flipping gym. And he’s forever taking the piss out of me about my garden.’

‘George has also been a victim of a prank. You just said that.’

‘He could have played it on himself.’

‘What? George? Put himself in that situation with only a Mr Tickle suit to wear? Don’t be daft!’

‘Maybe you’re right. What about Greg then? He lives in Bishops, just a few doors from me. Knows his way about the place better than anyone. He came round the other night too. It could have been him.’

‘Oh stop it, Bob. You’ll drive yourself mad, and what’s the point? No harm’s been done. Whoever did this will probably own up sooner or later anyway. Proud of themselves, more than likely. Like we all said at Sunday Club, remember?’

‘I suppose so,’ muttered Bob.

‘Good. You are coming to Johnny’s this Sunday, aren’t you?’ persisted Tiny.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Bob, this needs to be talked through. You need to admit to everyone how upset you were when you thought you’d lost Danny’s pot, and that you don’t think it’s funny.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘You laughed at George.’

‘Yes, and I wish I hadn’t, to tell the truth. The whole lot of us should have thought things through more.’

‘OK then, I reckon we have to put a stop to all this. We don’t want any more pranks, because we don’t want not to be trusting each other, do we, mate?’

‘I guess not,’ said Bob.

After finishing the call Tiny phoned Greg to say the plants had been returned.

Greg giggled at him down the phone.

‘Look, Bob’s taking it all a bit seriously...’ Tiny began.

‘I know that,’ said Greg. ‘He was dead moody when I called round, and I was only trying to help. Even though I’d guessed it was another prank. And you gotta accept that it’s funny.’

‘Bob doesn’t think it’s funny,’ said Tiny. ‘Actually, he’s very upset. You saw that for yourself. You have to remember, Greg, that he thought he’d lost the pot his kid made for him — he’s never got over Danny pissing off. And you know how daft he is about his prize pelargoniums. He once told me he regarded his pelargoniums as his children now, and that they were a lot less trouble than a hairy-arsed teenager.’

Greg’s giggling exploded into full-blown laughter at this.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Tiny,’ he said. ‘Now that really is funny.’

Tiny, Billy, George and Marlena all arrived at Johnny’s early the following Sunday. Michelle came next and immediately expressed sympathy for Bob and unease about what she felt could be an unpleasant edge to the practical jokes.

‘If you’re upsetting people then that’s not a joke, not as far as I’m concerned anyway,’ she said.

‘That’s what I’m beginning to think,’ said Tiny. ‘And Bob certainly does.’

‘Come on,’ said George. ‘I was made to look a total prat. But now a bit of time has passed I do realize the prank played on me was pretty funny. I just want to know who’s doing it, that’s all.’

‘We all seem to agree it’s the same person, and probably one of us, don’t we?’ said Michelle.

‘Definitely the same person,’ said Billy. ‘Same MO, as they say in the best detective shows. And obviously someone who knows Bob and George, their habits, and where they live. What other link do Bob and George have, apart from Sunday Club?’

George shrugged.

‘Can you think of anything, George?’ asked Marlena.

George was just replying that he could think of no other link, when Greg and Karen arrived.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Greg said. ‘Some bastard’s slashed the tyres on the van. Three of ’em, for fuck’s sake. Had to sort it straight away, ’cos I need to get going first thing in the morning. Gotta big job on.’

There was total silence as Greg sat down and helped himself to a glass of the wine that was already on the table. It seemed a long time before he became aware of the silence, or that all eyes were fixed on him.

‘What?’ he enquired, looking around.

‘Whaddya mean, “what”? Isn’t it obvious?’ enquired Billy.

‘Isn’t what obvious?’ Greg paused, then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, no. You can’t possibly think it’s the same joker who took the piss out of George and Bob, can you? That was entirely different. This is malicious.’

‘Yes, and it’s a different MO,’ said Billy, working it out like the lawyer he was. ‘As you say, entirely different. But if it’s not the same joker then we’ve got a coincidence on our hands.’

‘Not really,’ said Greg. ‘Typical Saturday-night vandalism, if you ask me. I’ve lived in this manor all my life and these things happen. The van’s parked in the street most of the time I’m not driving it, in residents’ parking. Just my turn for a bit of bother, that’s all.’

‘So you really believe it was random?’ pressed George.

‘’Course I do,’ said Greg.

‘No note then, like George and Bob?’ queried Billy.

Greg shook his head.

‘Maybe it blew away,’ said Tiny. ‘It’s windy today.’

‘For goodness’ sake, no,’ responded Greg. ‘Look, we’re market. Expect the odd knock round here. Don’t we, babe?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Karen. ‘I honestly don’t know. I mean, nothing like this has happened to us before, all the years we’ve lived here, has it?’

‘Like I said, it’s our turn. And I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. So come on, I’m ravenous. I could eat a horse. Whoops, shouldn’t say that, should I — who knows what’s in the burgers these days? Anyway, a horse might not be big enough.’

Greg picked up the Sunday specials menu. He tried to avoid meeting Karen’s eye. She knew more about him than anyone else in the world. But even she didn’t know everything.

He wanted desperately to change the subject. To move on from the matter of his slashed tyres.

‘Hey, half a roasted elephant,’ he said, realizing he was talking nonsense but not caring. ‘Just the job. Oh no. My mistake. Half a roasted chicken. Think I’ll have the spare ribs again.’

More wine was delivered, another Prosecco for Marlena, and a second round of cosmos for Tiny and Billy, while the group juggled the menus and finally ordered their meals. Alfonso, on duty at the Vine, and Ari, off goodness knows where and on goodness knows what, did not turn up. Neither did Bob.

It was quite usual for only some of the friends to be present, but none of them had really expected Bob to be there. Especially given the fact he hadn’t taken the theft of his plants well and he suspected one of the Sunday Clubbers to be responsible.

Nonetheless, in spite of the awkwardness generated by Bob’s absence and the unease caused by Greg and Karen’s news of the damage to their van, after a bit the evening settled into a normal Sunday Club session. But that was only how it seemed. In truth, everyone around the table, including Greg, who had put on such a show of being dismissive, was uneasy.

Greg kept his head down and concentrated hard on his spare ribs in barbecue sauce, thankful that he had chosen a dish that demanded his full attention. Karen kept glancing at Greg anxiously and said little. Tiny, Billy and George all talked too much. Michelle and Marlena both picked at their food. Marlena, witty caustic Marlena, who normally had a riposte for everything, was unusually silent.

There was a common preoccupation, of course. Questions that lurked in the back of the minds of at least six of the seven assembled members of the group, or perhaps all of them.

Could those tyres have been slashed by the same person who had played pranks on Bob and George? Could it really be one of their supper club? Could that person actually be sitting at the table?

Or was Greg right, and this latest incident was just a random case of inner-city vandalism?