Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 01-08

'Bitches get spied on and taken care of!' He remembered picking up the paper in the cemetery. What did it mean? Had it blown there or was it put there on purpose? Most peculiar; and rather worrying. Still, couldn't be anything to do with Polly.

And what was he going to do with her, now she was asleep? He looked down; she had stopped snoring, and was dribbling slightly. He gently dried her cheek with a tissue, careful not to touch her make-up, then went upstairs and lay on his bed.

He couldn't understand her story. The broad sweep of it was intelligible, although he felt that she had somewhat played down her own active role in the 'seduction' proceedings. He could remember what had happened between them very well, and had also kept a rough 'diary' with notes and dates of anything significant, in a notebook. He went down to his painting room and rummaged in the drawer till he found the 2013 one and took it upstairs.

19 June. Bloody rubbish outside front door! Again! Polly wants platonic. Will talk Fri.

20 June. Polly changed mind -- hates me. Sounded odd. Good or bad?

21 June, P stands by yesterday. It's over. Bloody bitch Bi! But sexy as hell!

Polly had told him that she had said one Friday that she stood by her last words about staying friends. He checked the days and dates in 2013 on his laptop, and there was a Friday 21st June. But on the Thursday Polly's last words were that she hated him. She had even threatened him with the police. He remembered how shocked he had been by the change from Wednesday to Thursday, and that she had sounded a bit odd on Thursday, not like herself. Was it possible that there had been an impostor, a personator, on Thursday?

So, when she spoke on Friday, was she referring to Wednesday's conversation instead? That would mean that she had wanted to stay friends and that they had busted up for nothing.

When she had rejected him, he had immediately changed his name to Tommytoomy and let Bi know so that he could still talk to her. And Polly had hung around for weeks. He knew that, because he had seen her online: he had never contacted her; he had presumed that she was looking for another friend or lover, and he had been rather glad about it.

His head was swimming and he closed his eyes, feeling confused and miserable.

#

He woke up and wondered why he was lying on the bed fully clothed and feeling a bit hard down there. Polly was standing beside the bed with a mug of coffee.

'Come on, Mr Sleepy, you nodded off. I can't shut my eyes for forty winks without you falling fast asleep! You were snoring and woke me up! I've wiped most of my stuff off your trousers while you were asleep.'

'Thank you, Polly. What's the time?'

'Five o'clock and I have to go. Can I come tomorrow? You haven't even done any painting yet, just drawings. And I'm off on Friday.'

'Can I walk you anywhere?'

'No, don't bother. I'll tell you what, can we just pop over now and see Gran's grave? Just for a minute? And the daisies and the deer?'

They walked across slowly, both feeling a bit sad about the coming Friday: when they got to the grave there was a bit of paper there, under a pebble as before.

'That's not very nice on Gran's grave, you'd think people wouldn't throw litter in a cemetery!'

She picked it up, saw there was writing on it, and read it. Her face paled and she looked about nervously.

'Are you OK?'

'Yes it's just rubbish.'

He took the paper from her and read.

"Every move you make, I'll be watching you. And that bastard, too. Him first I think!"

Tim frowned. 'God, there's some weirdoes about! What do you think this means? It surely can't be anything to do with you . . . us?'

'I've no idea. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.'

At the gate she bobbed up and pecked him on the cheek and hurried off without turning back to wave. He saw her taking her phone from her bag, and jabbing the number pad. He went back to the flat deep in thought.

Why had she said earlier that she was miserable?

#

After dinner, he heard a bleep that meant an e-mail had come.

20:37

From: XXXXXX@XXXXX.com

To: XXXXX1372@XXXXX.com

Hello James.

Bad news I'm afraid!

I had to see someone after I left you, to clear something up. The thing is, I can't come to see you tomorrow!

I am really pissed off about it, but things have cropped up and now I need to do stuff tomorrow, and I know what that silly note meant. It is nothing to worry about, I am sure. I can twist him round my little finger and you are too big for him to try anything so no probs there! He thinks you do karate! Lol.

Don't worry about me. I am very very sorry and shall miss seeing you before I go. I am attaching a photo of my husband's business card so you will be able to know where I am when you get the painting done, but we can talk about that when the time comes. You must definitely paint me and I will definitely buy your picture because you mustn't do work for nothing and we can definitely afford it!

I will have to give you a pretend kiss now, instead of tomorrow evening as I was hoping to do with a proper real one.

I stand on tiptoe because you are so tall and manly, and I press my lips to yours for ages!

Mwa!

Ever yours

Polly X

20:42

From: XXXXX1372@XXXXX.com

To: XXXXXX@XXXXX.com

Hello Polly.

You have really worried me now! Are you sure you will be alright?

Who is he?

James. X

20:44

From: XXXXXX@XXXXX.com

To: XXXXXX1372@XXXXX.com

Not to worry, he is just my ex. I know he thinks he's tough just because he plays rugby and watches wrestling and does gym, but as I say I have him under control. He knows he can't have me back. I told him I'm married and also that you are just a painter and there is not really anything serious between us, so that's put you in the clear. And for good measure I told him about the karate. Haha.

All the same I need to go to London tomorrow, it's better if I'm not in Reading at the moment. Better safe than sorry as the bishop said to the actress!

Bye darling.

Please don't be angry with me I couldn't stand that, I need a friend like you so please don't dump me.

Yours ever

Polly

XXXXX

Take care.

He felt sick inside. The thought of not seeing her again was more painful than it should be. And he wondered if the ex was really under control.

#

It was beginning to get dark, so he went downstairs, frowning, and added his own small rubbish bag to the pile from the Pizzeria. As he straightened, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

'Evening. I think we should have a little talk, let's go to the cemetery.'

The man was shorter than Tim, but beefy; he had a stubbly ginger beard and a head like a shaved coconut.

'Sorry, but...who are you?'

'Just a mutual friend. Just a little chat to straighten things out. Nothing to worry about. She wanted me to sort things out between us, that's all. Wants me to make amends.'

Tim was deeply worried. Although tall, he was not a tough guy, and he was getting on a bit.

'Why the cemetery?'

'There's a grave there she wants me to look at with you. Only take a minute. Please, for Poll's sake. Give her peace of mind if you do. I promised her. She said it'd be a good idea to clear the air sort of thing.'

Despite his tough exterior, he looked close to tears and Tim suddenly felt pity for him.

They walked across to the cemetery gate. As they started up the long straight path, Tim's mind raced desperately. He felt in his guts that something awful would happen at the grave. He remembered an old battered paperback he had owned as a student. 'Citizen's guide to unarmed self-defence' by Frank B Inkerman (former FBI agent). Full of drawings showing a respectably-dressed citizen in a fifties-style US citizen hat defending himself from attacks by a scruffy unshaved assailant. Knife lunges were deflected by forearms, stabbing swings blocked by stiff-armed crossed-wrist postures, in both cases followed by swift and skilful grabbing of arms or wrists, then twists and bends and finger-snapping or limb-breaking over a raised knee. He could never acquire skills like that in the few seconds at his disposal.

What if Coconut had a gun?

Gun threats from behind were countered by a sudden body spin and a sweeping aside of the weapon with a stiff arm, then a kick in the crotch and seizure of the firearm, preferably breaking the assailant's arm in the process. "WARNING: this maneuver should NEVER be attempted unless the gun is actually in contact with the citizen's body. In such a case it would be safer to execute the very simple and reliable 'false passive' response after first arranging a face-to-face position. see page..."

Perhaps he was panicking for nothing. Coconut was not touching him or even paying him much attention as they walked side-by-side. He probably had no intention of assaulting Tim. Things like that didn't happen to ordinary people. What was the "false-passive" response?

They arrived at the grave. Coconut stood at the foot with his back to Tim and bowed his head with his hands clasped over his crotch. Then he turned.

'This is Poll's gran, and it seems to me a good place to make my point.'

'How do you mean?'

'You've been coming on to Poll a bit, haven't you?'

Tim knew then that he had been right to be afraid. He entered a state of quiet lucidity, and fear gave way to an analytical calmness. He felt cold drops of sweat on the back of his neck. He noticed a tiny deer in the distance behind Coconut and heard sparrows chattering in the bushes. Whatever means of attack Coconut was planning he knew that he must respond decisively and appropriately without fear or hesitation.

'Er...no.'

'What's that on your flies then, you dirty old cunt!'

Tim observed his own body feel sick and weak at the knees, but his mind remained alert and prepared. He allowed himself to tremble visibly: anything that gave Coconut a sense of superiority could make him overconfident and careless and might work to Tim's advantage. It was getting dark and the cemetery seemed to be deserted.

'I haven't been coming on to Poll—'

'I think you need teaching a lesson in respect for young women. On your knees, cunt!'

Tim dropped to his knees obediently, frantically trying to remember the 'false passive response'. He was certainly being passive, but a kneeling position seemed not to offer much scope for a decisive strike.

'And you dropped this the other day.'

Coconut was holding a stanley knife, and he slowly extended the blade.

'If you do karate then I'm a puff's bumboy! Look at me while I'm talking to you!'

Against his natural instincts Tim began to shuffle forward passively on his knees towards Coconut; he scrabbled at the ground then snivelled and fingered Coconut's shoes, his mind racing frantically.

'I'm an old man and never did you any harm.'

'You fucking cowardly bastard! Wanna know what I'm gonna do to you?'

'No, please—'

'I'm gonna cut up your face then have your filthy cock off and leave it on the grave as a fucking decoration. She'll love finding that there! And then I'll sort her out too. Look good with only one tit, won't she? And your cock up her dirty cunt permanent!'

'No, I can explain—' From nowhere came remembrance and he saw the crude illustration in Frank Inkerman's book, and knew what to do.

He grabbed Coconut by the left ankle, and lunged forward as hard as he could, ramming his shoulder into the left leg just below the knee and simultaneously yanking the ankle forward. There was a cracking noise and Coconut fell backwards hard. His head smashed against Polly Tatt's headstone and he kicked his legs and slid down until he was lying full length along the grave, on his back, moaning and clutching the air with clawed and bleeding fingers.

Tim was in a rage now, and kicked him hard between the legs to disable him, then turned and fled, heart pounding.

He slowed down as he left the deserted cemetery, walked rapidly across the road gasping for breath, and looked back as he fumbled with his key at the lock, but there was no sign of Coconut. He laboured up the stairs and looked out of the window with the lights out: still no sign. He was in a frenzy of adrenaline and excitement and lay down on his back on the carpet and began slow deep breathing and repetition of a mantra he had not used for years. Gradually his body responded and he began to feel calmer.

He started to worry. Was Coconut alright? He dithered and paced, then picked up the phone and dialled 999. It took an age, but he finally got through to Ambulance. He tried to sound as young as possible.

'Man injured in Reading old cemetery. Lying on grave badly hurt. About 200 metres in and on left. Urgent.'

He hung up immediately and waited, still panting and feeling tight about the chest.

Ten minutes later he saw an ambulance arrive with blue lights and siren, and the cemetery gates were opened and the vehicle entered and drove slowly up the path until it was out of sight: he could still see the blue light flashing, illuminating the grass and trees eerily. After fifteen minutes the light died and a large white unmarked van arrived and seemed to join the ambulance. He saw bright flashes through the trees, as though photos were being taken. Then the ambulance came back: it was moving slowly and turned into the evening traffic without urgency. No blue light or siren. The cemetery remained illuminated by a white glow. It looked bad.

He lay in bed in a sweat. Had he killed the man? What should he do? His first instinct was to run; go to France maybe. Should he call the police and explain? Sit tight and hope for the best? He was trembling and sweating.

He couldn't sleep for the image of Coconut waving the knife slowly near his face; Coconut sneering and threatening; Coconut falling back and banging his head. And his own gratuitous kick between the legs. But the bastard was going to kill him, it was only natural to defend himself. Surely the police would understand that?

He couldn't think straight and eventually decided to fall back on his usual way of dealing with life's problems; to simply stop thinking and sleep on it, presuming that the morning would bring clarity and decisiveness. It took some time to fall into a restless and horrible sleep full of violent dreams.

CHAPTER FIVE: THURSDAY. An interview with the police; a flight, and an intriguing meeting on the train.

The next morning his doorbell rang and he was not really surprised to find a man and a short-haired woman standing there. For an instant he hoped it might be Jehovah's Witnesses, but he could see police vehicles over by the cemetery gates, and uniformed police officers talking to passers-by.

The woman smiled and spoke, flashing a card which he didn't really take in.

'Good morning, sir. Thames Valley Police Major Crime Unit. I wonder if we could have a little chat. There was an incident last night in the cemetery and we are asking neighbours if they saw anything unusual.'

'Oh, of course. I don't think I saw anything.'

'Could we come in for a minute, sir?'

'Yes, come up.'

They led the way, and he followed her bum up the stairs, feeling uncomfortable and nervous.

'Oh, yes. You've got a good view from here. You can almost see the scene.'

'Yes.'

They glanced at each other and he wondered what he'd said wrong. The policeman took the lead, but Tim suspected that the woman was really in charge: she scared him.

'Let's sit down.'

They perched together on the front of the sofa, and he sat before them on his dining chair.

'First, could you please provide us with your full name and address? Just for the record, sir'

Tim gave them his name and address and she wrote it down in a little yellow notebook with a rubber band round it to hold the page in place; he was surprised to see such an old-fashioned way of note-taking.

'Now, you live alone here, do you?'

'Yes, I'm divorced.'

'So, you're single, then.'

The woman continued taking notes, jotting down the brief bits of information as they were disclosed. It made him nervous.

'Yes, divorced.'

'So you said, sir. Was anyone else with you here last night between say nine and ten?'

'No, not then.'

'Somebody earlier, then? Or maybe later?'

'Well, a friend was round earlier, but she left about half past five.'

'A female visitor, then.'

'Yes, a sort of friend, but only recently.'

Why was he telling them more than necessary? Nerves were making him hysterical and he was afraid he would suddenly blurt out everything. Each answer seemed to warrant a note being taken, and the whole process was terrifyingly methodical as though it would lead inevitably to the whole truth coming out. The woman opened a new page.

'And she didn't come back afterwards?'

'No.'

'Was anybody else here after she had gone, but before nine, or after ten?'

His head was spinning and his mouth was dry. Coconut hadn't been into his flat and so he could continue telling the strict truth.

'No.'

'So, alone all evening after say 5:30. Good. Did you see any unusual activity from your window yesterday evening? In the cemetery, or in the street?'

'No, nothing at all.'

'Or hear any unusual noises? Or lights? Vehicles in the cemetery?'

'No, nothing.'

'That's odd. An ambulance was called to the cemetery. It must have made a noise; it was an urgent call.'

'Oh, yes, I remember. Sorry I wasn't thinking. Yes I heard the siren and looked and saw it.'

'But you heard and saw nothing unusual in the half hour or so before the ambulance?'

'No, I'm sure.'

'Well, thank you very much, sir. We are collecting bits of information like yours to put a picture together. Like assembling a jigsaw.'

'Oh, that's fine, I understand.'

'Before we go, would you mind if we take a quick look round your flat please, sir?'

'Oh, yes, of course.'

He showed them the upstairs. Bedroom with unmade bed. Bathroom still a bit steamy. Their eyes flicked round taking everything in, and notes were taken. Then down to the living room again.

The woman looked at his computer and wrote something in her book.

'So, good view from the front window. And the back?'

'Yes, just through here. Just the service yard.'

'Oh! Are you an artist, sir?'

'Well, I paint, but not professionally.'

'May we?'

They flipped through some of his stacked paintings, then leafed through his sketchbooks. The sexy woman was lying on a small side table and seemed to interest the woman in particular.

'Do you do much of this sort of thing?'

'No.'

'She's not yesterday's visitor?'

'No, no, that's just an exercise in trying out a different style from my usual.'

The policeman was leafing through his sketches of Polly. The coloured ones looked horribly tarty, as if deliberately so. They probably thought he had done the good one first and then progressively tarted her up for his own amusement; or gratification.

'Is this your friend, sir?'

'Yes it is, actually. I'm going to do a painting of her and I was sketching.'

'She's very pretty. And very young.'

'Well, she's twenty-one...'

'Have you known her long?'

They were alternating questions now and it made him dizzy.

'No, not really. We met on Sunday.'

'And now she is posing for you. Where did you meet? At a club, somewhere like that? Or online dating or similar?'

'No. We met in the cemetery, actually.'

He felt sick. They had now found a link with the cemetery. Best thing was to tell the whole truth except for the crucial ten minutes or so. The "scene" location was just coincidence. But the victim was the ex of the girl whose gran was buried at the "scene". Would that be seen as just a coincidence?

'Oh, that's a coincidence!'

'Yes, well it's just across the road.'

'And what were you both doing there? When you met.'