Helen Laycock
a glass of celebratory champagne
‘Scum!’ The
shaven-haired youth gave the dark bundle a size ten kick as he passed on his way
to ‘The Three Horseshoes’.
Jimmy Driscoll,
the dark bundle, shuffled deeper behind the large Biffa bin, pulled his hat down
over his eyes and his sleeping bag over his face. It was going to be a miserable
night, he thought, as the icy wind snatched at his covers and wheedled its way
in through every tiny perforation.
‘Morning, Jimmy!’ Polly called out cheerily from behind the desk as Jimmy pushed
open the glass door the next morning. ‘Cold night?’
‘Not
too bad,’ Jimmy replied.
Polly
nodded compassionately.
The
inner library door swung open again and Polly lowered her voice now that the
room was no longer empty. ‘I’ll bring the paper over.’
Jimmy
kept his head down, avoiding the contemptuous gaze of the old lady that had just
come in to return two paperbacks, and made his way to the obscured desk in the
corner where he spent a good two hours reading the newspaper every day. On
Tuesdays, when Miss Staunton had her day off, Polly would bring him a
surreptitious cup of coffee and a digestive biscuit, but today was Monday and
Miss Staunton was in the back room cataloguing.
Jimmy
Driscoll lived by routine. It shaped his day. Awake with the sunrise, he would
carefully roll up his bedding, wrap it in plastic and secrete it behind the
bins, before making his way to the public toilets for a wash and shave with a
plastic razor. Every day he would go to the library, chat to Polly if no one was
around, and sit concealed in a corner while she turned a blind eye. The rest of
the day was spent sitting at the shop-end of his alleyway receiving equal
measures of generosity and abuse.
Monday
was cold. Shoppers were in a hurry with coat collars turned up, and change was
hard to extract with gloved fingers.
Sleet
fell, the grey evening quickly grew dark and the streets emptied. One or two
stragglers seemed to be making their way towards the pub, but, other than that,
the night was quiet.
Jimmy
decided that the best course of action would be to tuck himself up as early as
possible and keep warm. He fumbled for his bedding in the dark, shook it out and
was about to lay it down when he noticed something.
Somebody
was on his patch.
He
coughed.
No
reaction.
Some
drunk, he suspected.
Jimmy
knelt down and shook the figure, but there was something about the man that rang
alarm bells. He did not have a sleeping bag. Jimmy could feel that he was
wearing a thick woollen coat.
Putting
his cheek to the man’s nose, he realised he was not breathing. He was as cold as
granite. Jimmy ran up and down the deserted alleyway, then back to the man.
He
was Dead.
Snowflakes
fell as Jimmy stood there, transfixed, unable to determine what do to. Would he incriminate himself by reporting it or even by
being spotted near a corpse? Nothing could be done to save the man. That
much was obvious.
Jimmy
shivered. This was no night to be outside on the streets.
Jimmy
finished buttoning up the slightly large coat and looked over at the dead
vagrant.
The
cold light thrown by fallen snow enabled him to see the man clearly now. He was
in his late fifties, perhaps, well-fed, no wedding ring, but he was wearing a
watch.
He
wouldn’t need that any more, Jimmy reasoned, and strapped the Rolex around his
own skinny wrist, noticing the coincidence of the inscribed initials, JD.
With
one last look, Jimmy put his gloved hands into his pockets and began walking.
The
snow continued to fall.
Jimmy
missed his coffee and digestive on Tuesday. Instead, he walked the streets.
People
said, ‘Excuse me,’ and ‘Chilly day,’ and he smiled back, exhilarated, enjoying
the exchange of small talk.
Feeling
a leather wallet in his inside pocket, he treated himself to a bowl of soup and
a brown roll when his watch told him it was midday. And
as he left the small cafe, he felt a thrill when the waitress called out, ‘Bye!’
Outside,
he thrust his hands into his overcoat pocket and contemplated which way to go.
He
felt something small and flat at the bottom.
Taking
off his glove, he realised it was a key, but to where? He searched in the wallet
until he found, between two credit cards, under the name James E. Daniels, a
small business card with ‘New address’ printed at the top. It was a road name he
recognised. Of course, he could go back to the library to look it up, but what
about Polly? Instead he bought a local map from the newsagents and began to
walk.
Jimmy
arrived at Brinchard Lane to see a man with a mallet knocking down a ‘Sold’ sign
from outside number 2 and loading it into his small van.
It
was a large, detached brick and flint cottage.
Tentatively,
he walked through the garden gate and knocked on the door, not really knowing
what he would say if a woman, as yet unacquainted with her new status of
widowhood, saw him wearing her husband’s clothes.
No
one answered, and, on looking through the window he saw boxes, some open, some
stacked.
Of
course, the key worked.
The
house was warm. The thermostat had already been set. There were labelled boxes
everywhere, but Jimmy headed for one immediately that said ‘Photographs’. He
rifled through the contents. There were several framed photographs of
landscapes, the dead man with what appeared to be his elderly parents and a
variety houses.
No
family then, Jimmy surmised. This was confirmed when he saw that the only
furnished bedroom had one single bed.
By
sunset, Jimmy had unpacked, storing the photographs in the cupboard underneath
the stairs, and had put a ready meal into the microwave.
Jimmy
no longer frequented the library, although he often thought about the
kind-hearted Polly, and so he was unaware of the poster the police had asked her
to stick up with a photofit of the deceased man. The
familiar details in the picture had gnawed away at her until, finally, she
remembered a very similar man who had recently come into the library just having
moved into the area. She seemed to recall that he had been asking for
information about badminton clubs and she had given him a copy of the local
magazine, Lifestyle. She had circled the sports club section on page
three.
Meanwhile,
Jimmy’s life had changed beyond his wildest dreams. He cleaned his windows, kept
the house immaculate and even did a bit of gardening for his elderly neighbours
who knew him as James. And, having found the pin number of his gracious
benefactor in the bedside cabinet drawer, he had access to unimaginable funds,
and paid in cash for everything.
It
was while he was at the supermarket checkout late one Friday evening that he
heard a familiar voice.
‘Jimmy?’
He
turned around to see a puzzled Polly. She hugged him. ‘Jimmy, I hardly recognise
you. I’ve been so worried. It’s been ages.’
She
looked him up and down and smiled. ‘You’ve done so well for
yourself.’
‘I…I…Hello,
Polly,’ Jimmy finally managed.
She
could see he was still shy and humble, still the lovely man that he always was
underneath.
‘Where
do you live now, Jimmy?’
She
was beaming at him and Jimmy was suddenly full of confidence.
‘Brinchard
Lane.’ He swallowed. ‘Come back for supper!’
Polly
blushed, thought about it for just a second and agreed, and before she knew it,
they were getting off the bus together at the end of Brinchard Lane.
Polly
thought the house was wonderful.
‘Have
a look round,’ Jimmy offered as he chopped peppers and onions in the kitchen.
Polly
wandered across to the oak bookshelf in the living room and trailed her fingers
across the books. She let out a little gasp as she pulled out one of her
favourite books, Lucky Jim. They shared the same taste.
As
she opened it, out fell a red passport. Smiling, she turned to the back to see
Jimmy’s photograph and had the shock of her life when she saw the face of the
dead man, who, she now realised, was called James Daniels.
Polly
felt the blood drain from her face then flood back in. She looked around the
room, colours merging in a tornado of confusion.
There,
on the coffee table, was ‘Lifestyle’ magazine.
Fingers
trembling, she turned to page three and stared at the red ring,
horrified.
Slowly,
it dawned on her.
As
she slipped out of the front door, she heard Jimmy singing in the
kitchen.
With the pot bubbling, Jimmy poured out two glasses of Merlot and went to the
foot of the stairs. ‘Polly, would you like a drink?’ he called.
He carried the
glasses to the coffee table, plumped up the cushions, lit the fire and waited.
The room looked soft and cosy. Upstairs was still a bit sparse, but maybe Polly
would have some ideas about what to do with it.
Seeing a book on
the arm of the chair, Jimmy got up to replace it and was thrown into
bewilderment when he saw the passport lying on top of it. He didn’t own a
passport. It must have been tucked inside the book…
Suddenly, there
came a man’s voice from the doorway.
Jimmy looked up
and saw two grim-faced policemen.
‘Cheers,’ said
the taller one sardonically, glancing at the wine goblets.
It would be a
long time before Jimmy found himself on the streets again.
About the author
Helen Laycock
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