by Michael Brandon
Jayden stopped in the stairwell and sniffed the air. Someone had mopped the steps with bleached water, but it wasn’t enough to hide the sweaty sock smell of Mrs Nowak’s corpse. The ambulance crew used a wooden spatula to prize her out of her armchair, or so he’d been told. Another account, one he considered too far-fetched, was that her decomposing body filled with gas and floated around the flat like a barrage balloon.
He gave his diecast Spitfire another loop-the-loop, strafed the iron banister with machine gun fire, and continued his ascent. On the sixth floor he flicked a spring-loaded letterbox and waited for a disturbance of empty jam jars. They were stacked against the door as an intruder alarm, and it took the old lady a long time to set them aside. In the meantime, he dropped the hood of his raincoat and wondered who she thought might want to break in. Four flats to each landing; no one could make a sound out here and go unnoticed. Even as he stood with his forehead pressed to the door, he was sure at least one of the neighbours was watching him through a spyhole.
The clinking of glass stopped. The door split open. One of Mrs Byrne’s bloodshot eyes peered out. Satisfied the boy was alone, she held the door open, but he knew not to advance until he was invited in. It was their customary hesitation, a moment to remind themselves of the other’s peculiarities.
To her mind, his cheeks had the roundness of a much younger boy, but flashes of lightning stencilled above the ears were something only an older boy should have. He seemed to be half asleep most of the time, which belied his observant nature.
He studied her hands as if seeing them for the first time; blotched tissue drawn over bone and sinew. One hand was holding the door open while the other pinched a cigarette between thumb and forefinger.
‘Are you wet?’ she asked.
‘No.’
She turned and shuffled along a short corridor.
‘Close it properly after you,’ she said.
*
The furniture in her living room was a mixture of old and new. She had a glass cabinet filled with porcelain plates and figurines, and an ugly wooden box with fat buttons and dials that she called a radiogram. A laptop lay open on a table by the window, alongside balls of knitting wool and piles of magazines.
By habit he sat in a battered leather armchair and waited for her to offer him a cup of tea. She stood by the door, sucking in another lungful of smoke. She exhaled and sent ghostly strands curling towards him. Now and then she tapped ash into a saucer on the sideboard. It was unusual to see her standing at the door. Her favourite spot was by the window, watching people cross a piazza. A silly word. She didn’t watch them idly, she studied them closely and made mental notes. The comings and goings were her main topic of conversation and the reason she liked him to visit. He was a good source of information, and she was a good source of biscuits.
It was proving to be a sensational week. The corpse in the flat above was trumped by a murder in Block B. There was no need to ask if he’d heard anything more about it, he would burst if he didn’t tell her immediately.
‘I stroked a sniffer dog today. Oh, and do you know…’
Having recalled an interesting point, the toy fell from his hand. He reached down to get it.
‘Do I know what? Spit it out.’
‘The estate was on the telly.’ He spun the three-pronged propeller with a flick of his finger. It was still in good working order. ‘I saw them filming. The man said we’re a community coming to terms with tragedy. He said it lots. We’re coming to terms with it. I don’t know what that means.’
‘They talk a lot of balls on television.’
‘They interviewed Mr Azimi too.’
‘Did they? And what did he have to say for himself?’
‘He said you don’t expect something like that to happen round here.’
‘God help us.’ She tapped ash into the saucer and sighed. ‘And where does he expect it to happen?’
‘Dunno.’ He chewed on a tail wing. ‘I saw loads of police with big sticks. They were walking in a line across the square.’
‘Yes, I saw them too. They’re looking for evidence.’
‘Oh.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘I bet you saw lots of dead people in the war, Mrs Byrne.’
‘In the war? For God’s sake Jayden, how old do you think I am?’
Oblivious to the offence, he wondered why she wasn’t making his tea. He flew the Spitfire in an arc over his head.
‘But have you seen a dead body?’ he asked.
She blew smoke through her nose.
‘That needn’t concern a boy of your age.’
And yet the old hypocrite made him describe Mrs Nowak’s bloated corpse in exquisite detail. It was a second-hand account compiled from snippets of gossip. Mrs Nowak died in front of a gas fire and her toes cooked like ten fat sausages. That’s what his mum was told anyway. She said it was probably rubbish because it was midsummer, and Mrs Nowak didn’t need her fire on.
She drummed her fingernails on the door frame and watched him fiddle with his toy. He was obsessed with a war that she was too young to remember. While other children had their faces pressed to glowing screens, he had his head forever in the clouds. That’s why she liked him. He was inquisitive, unlike the other children. The others sat around in entrance halls with their hoods up, even when it wasn’t raining. They listened to horrible music and wore trousers with saggy crotches that made them look like they’d shat themselves. They moved aside to let her pass on the steps, but they never spoke. She was afraid of them. She was afraid of everything beyond her front door. What happened to the children who amused themselves for hours in the piazza with just a tennis ball or an old bicycle wheel? What happened to their joyful shouts and squeals of laughter? When did the fear set in?
‘That nice lady lives in B Block,’ he said.
‘What nice lady?’
‘The lady with the hat. She lives on the top floor. Mum says they wrapped her in tinfoil and put her in the back of an ambulance.’
‘You make her sound like a roast chicken.’ She rested her cigarette on the saucer. ‘She was in shock. They keep you warm when you’re in shock.’
‘Oh.’ The plane landed on the arm of the chair. ‘I hope she’s alright. She’s nice.’
‘Is that it then? Is that all you’ve got for me today?’
‘I stroked a sniffer dog.’
‘You told me that already.’
‘Oh, and do you know? The police knocked on my door. They talked to my mum.’
‘Yes, they were here too.’
He was suddenly alert to the possibilities.
‘Did you see something, Mrs Byrne?’
She shrugged and left the room, calling out a poem as she went. It was a familiar refrain, and it annoyed him.
‘A wise old owl sat in an oak.
The more she heard, the less she spoke.
The less she spoke, the more she heard.
Now wasn’t that a wise old bird?’
It was a wasted performance; he was focused on her laptop and wondering if she ever watched porn. He could hear her in the kitchen filling the kettle and opening drawers.
‘But did you?’ he called.
‘Ask no questions, tell no lies.’
That was a yes, but there was no use pressing the point. She wasn’t a wise owl at all, she was a lonely misfit who reacted to movement in the square the way cats react to twitching string.
The Spitfire dropped several bombs on a leather pouf. Whirring and spluttering, he stood up and took a leisurely flight to the window for a grandstand view of Block B on the other side of the square. The forensic tent in front of the entrance hall was being buffeted by a sharp deluge of summer rain. Police officers were sheltering in vans and patrol cars.
The presence of police on the estate made him uneasy. They were either cold and hostile, or they smiled like sharks. He didn’t want to stroke the sniffer dog, but the handler insisted. One of the older boys said you know when you’re grown when they stop and searched you for the first time. Jayden dreaded the growing spurt his mum said was inevitable. He wanted to stay small and inconspicuous.
A teaspoon chimed musically against a teacup. It was time to go back to his chair. She came in with a tray and handed him a cup of milky tea and a chocolate biscuit. She sat at the table by the window, drawing on her cigarette and watching a police van drive away. He took a bite and a sip.
‘How old are you Mrs Byrne?’
She smiled at his impertinence.
‘You’ve asked me that a thousand times before,’ she said without turning from the window, ‘and I’ll give you the same answer. I’m older than my teeth.’
‘Oh.’
He doubted she had any real teeth left. He dunked his biscuit.
‘How’s your mother?’ she asked.
‘Alright.’
‘What did she have to say to the police?’
‘Nothing really.’
She took another drag, held it, and breathed out.
‘I have a mission for you, Jayden. Should you choose to accept it.’
‘What mission?’
‘I want you to play detective for me.’
‘What do you mean?’ A piece of biscuit broke off and fell into his cup. ‘Like a game?’
‘I want you to talk to those nice policemen by the tent and see what you can find out. Tell them you want to be a policeman when you grow up, they like that sort of thing.’
‘But that’s lying!’
‘It’s only a white lie.’
‘What’s that?’
She blew smoke at the windowpane.
‘The ones you get away with.’
‘Oh. But it’s still lying.’
‘It’s called legitimate interest. We live on the estate, don’t we? We have every right to know what’s going on.’
‘But I don’t want to be a policeman when I grow up.’
‘Forget I mentioned it. How’s your tea?’
‘Nice.’
He drained his cup and scooped biscuit sludge from the bottom with his finger.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you could always say you want to be a pilot when you grow up, because that would be true. If you say you want to fly police aeroplanes, they’ll think you’re the bee’s knees.’
He licked his fingers.
‘Police don’t fly planes.’
‘Don’t they?’
‘No.’
‘What about helicopters? I hear those blasted things all the time.’
‘Yeah…’ He was enthralled by that idea. ‘I can fly helicopters.’
He imagined himself at the controls of twin-engine Chinook, hovering over the estate with cannons and heat-seeking missiles. He saw windows shattering, buildings exploding, and screaming civilians running for cover.
‘That’s a brilliant idea.’ He placed the empty cup on the arm of the chair and stood up. ‘I’ll do it now.’
His enthusiasm took her by surprise. She followed him into the hallway.
‘Don’t go running at it like a bull in a China shop,’ she said. ‘Sneaky-sneaky catches the monkey.’
He liked that expression. He grinned and opened the front door.
‘I’ll leak some classified intelligence as soon as I get it,’ he said.
‘You’re a good boy, Jayden.’
‘Yeah.’
The door closed.
It hurt her joints to crouch and stack glass jars, but it had to be done. The world was a dangerous place, and the very worst of it had come within spitting distance of her window.
*
Jayden was sitting on a step in the entrance hall of his block; elbows on knees, chin on fists, taking stock of the considerable obstacles in the way of his mission. The policewoman inside the tent swore at him long before he reached the exclusion tape.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
It was Sailor from Block G, interrupting his journey to the betting shop. He was using a closed umbrella as a walking stick. Jaydon liked the old man. He told funny stories and smelt of moist tobacco.
‘I’ve got the murder scene under surveillance,’ said Jayden.
‘Surveillance, is it?’
‘Yeah. I reckon the block’s haunted by now. When you die a violent death, you come back as a ghost.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. Do you know, he got stabbed by a screwdriver?’
‘Is that so?’
Sailor turned to look at the offending block. The rain had stopped, and humid vapour was rising from the shimmering square. A bored police officer was peering through the partially open tent door.
‘A screwdriver, was it? Who told you that?’
‘Everyone knows it. It’s on X.’
Sailor grunted. He took a tin from his coat pocket and selected a prepared rollup. Jayden marvelled at how the cigarettes stuck to the man’s bottom lip, and how they bobbed without falling off when he spoke.
‘A terrible business,’ said Sailor. He put the tin back in his pocket and lit up with a gold lighter.
‘Mr Azimi was on telly this morning,’ said Jayden.
‘Was he? He didn’t do it, did he?’
‘Course he didn’t do it,’ he laughed.
‘You seem pretty sure of yourself, son. I bet you a million quid it’s someone on the estate.’ He picked a sliver of tobacco from between his teeth. ‘Could have been me.’
‘It couldn’t have been you.’
‘Ah, the innocence of youth.’ He angled the umbrella over his shoulder like a rifle. ‘You should be indoors when there’s a madman on the loose, especially when you’ve got wet trousers. Good day to you, sir.’
The old man crossed the square and disappeared between blocks.
Jayden was feeling hungry and needed to pee, so he began his homeward ascent. When he stood, his wet trousers clung to his legs, and something about the feel and smell of it made him think of poor Mrs Nowak. It pleased him to know Mrs Byrne would be missed if she failed to remove her jam jars. Sailor on the other hand might have to wait a week or two before his absence was noticed.
He took the Spitfire from his raincoat pocket, gave the propeller a flick, and trudged up the stairs. When his front door came into view he stopped at a stairwell window for one last look at the crime scene. All but one of the police vehicles were gone. The only movement now was a loose strand of exclusion tape that fluttered in the breeze.
He peered upwards. The sky was a fresh blue arena framed by sparkling tenement rooftops. Fat Boeings and Airbuses floated across it at thirty second intervals, defying gravity, wheels down, growling low to high and fading away. He watched them for a long time, trying to ignore his urgent bladder.
When he could stand it no longer, he felt for the key in his trouser pocket and turned away.
Michael Brandon lives in Newcastle upon Tyne. His focus is on social issues and political satire. His monologue, Helen’s Letter to Paris, was highly commended by the Lit & Phil ClassicsFest in 2024. He has had a short story published in the US and is currently writing a political thriller.
