Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017. C.J. Skuse
I do. I do like it,’ said Linus, leaning back in his chair again. ‘Jeff? Come over a second, would you?’
Jeff limped over (old rugby injury) and pushed his half-moon glasses up his nose to stare at Linus’s screen.
‘Bloody hell. Is that from last night? Is that in town? Who took that?’
‘I did,’ I said, seeing as Linus wasn’t going to say anything. ‘I was lucky actually, they were only there for a few seconds. I saw the flames in the tree and then he grabbed her and pulled her away and then they were just lying there…’
‘That’s brilliant that is. I wonder who they are. Good framing, Rhiannon. Bit of a David Bailey we got on our hands, eh? Well, Davina Bailey.’
I didn’t know who David or Davina Bailey were but I guessed it was a compliment. It had to be. Me and Jeff were pals. Everyone else thought he was a bit out of touch. He spluttered like an old engine, constantly scratched and petted his ball sac like it was a golden retriever and never updated his software. I once heard him call Linus a wanker, then apologise because ‘Ladies were present.’
‘Is Ron still on his call with The Times?’ said Jeff.
We all looked across to his office. Through the window he looked to be deep in conference with a man’s face on his computer screen. ‘Photo like that’s too good to sit on for a week, that is. Too good to sit on. I’d get it on the website now.’
Linus erupted from his chair and marched across to Ron Pondicherry’s door and knocked loudly seven times. Then he just barged on in.
‘Well done, you,’ said Jeff as we both looked down at Linus’s computer screen as proud as if we were staring at a scan of our baby. ‘That’s smashing, Rhee.’
‘Thanks, Jeff,’ I said, blushing the colour of his cardigan, sans gravy stains.
‘Bet His Nibs was annoyed he didn’t take it himself, wasn’t he?’ he said, nodding in Linus’s direction.
I shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘Anything that sticks it up Lord Muck’s arse gets my vote.’ Jeff laughed and slapped me so hard on the back my ribs quaked. ‘Don’t let him take credit for that photo though.’
‘He wouldn’t, would he? I mean I know he will write the article but it’s my photo.’
Jeff sipped his coffee and did a non-committing shake of head.
‘He won’t pass it off as his photo, will he?’ I said, my heart turning blacker by the second.
He coughed. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, love. Wouldn’t hold your breath.’
1. Man in blue Qashqai, who today I learned has a huge Dalmatian. No abuse this morning but I still hate him
2. Mrs Whittaker, who has definitely taken a book from my shelf. And/or a green Biro, we think
3. Derek Scudd
4. Wesley Parsons
5. People who say ‘advocado’, ‘marshmellow’ or pronounce ‘h’ as ‘haitch’
Do you feel superior to your friends?
Yes, I do. And I don’t know much about people but I think most of us do. And why shouldn’t I? I have a degree, I do a full-time job and don’t sponge off the state like they do with their nursery vouchers and working family tax relief credit shenanigans. And yeah, I do get bored easily in their company. And in Craig’s company. And at work. But you’d never guess that. I am brilliant at The Act. The late great Leonard Cohen once said, ‘Act the way you’d like to be and soon you’ll be the way you act.’ I’ve been doing this since my therapy sessions ended. They thought I was cured, when really I was just lying. One day perhaps it’ll become second nature.
Caring is hard though. I’ve picked up some tips to keep people onside:
1. Listen – People like being the centre of attention. Keeping your mouth shut is a lost art and people cherish it.
2. Ask them how they are – even if you’ve already asked, people don’t seem to notice.
3. Compliment them on their haircut/weight loss.
4. Gifts – ‘I saw this and thought of you’ often works wonders
5. Make gluten-free cakes – covers all bases but chuck in a shitload of sugar to take away the taste.
Some people would call it bribery. I call it survival.
Even when I’m at home, I’m acting a part. I never know which bits of me are real. I wonder what it’s like to truly feel, to truly ‘be.’ Exhausting, I’d imagine. It’s easier to comfort someone online, like when Lucille’s mother died and she wanted to chat on IM. It was just my fingers typing well-timed condolences – the rest of me was glued to The Apprentice and chowing down Aero Bubbles like they were going out of fashion.
If anything, I prefer hanging out with their kids. If I go round to one of their houses and they’re putting the kettle on, I’ll sit in their Wendy houses and they’ll bring me plastic plates with little roast chickens on or we’ll do colouring in. Imelda’s twins, Hope and Molly, have some Sylvanian stuff that I don’t have so we tend to play with that or look through the brochure to see what we want next.
BuzzFeed had that wrong about me. I could allow myself to feel for some members of the human race. Children, for instance. I don’t like cruelty or unfairness to kids because, of anyone, they don’t deserve it. None of us deserved what happened to us at Priory Gardens.
It was one of my rules when it came to murder…
1. Be prepared – assess thoroughly and only go in if you know you can win
2. Cover your tracks – leave no fluids
3. Maintain The Act on all fronts
4. No Velcro – it’s a forensic scientist’s best friend
5. Defend the defenceless – children, animals, women in danger
And now there’s the injustice of Derek Scudd and the two little girls. Once upon a time, ‘a high risk repeat offender’ called Derek Scudd took two ten-year-olds back to his flat to meet his cat’s kittens. But the kittens didn’t exist. And the girls were forced to do things that destroyed every happy thought in their heads. The End.
The thought of Derek Scudd walking about a free man eats at my last nerve. I need to see that man die. I need to be on top of him when he does. The judge at his trial should be fucking lynched too.
One of his victims’ mothers came into the office today to talk to Claudia and Linus in Ron’s office – Mary Tolmarsh. I took them in some lattes and custard creams and caught the briefest glimpse of her. Blonde bob. Joules jumper. Navy jeans. Flats. Nice enough clothes but her face ran a different headline – a rag doll left out in the rain.
I heard a brief snatch of conversation – she mentioned Windwhistle Court, a block of flats on the other side of the park, and she’d sounded angry when she said it, like that was where Scudd lived now. I also heard he’d been using a false name. Windwhistle Court was about twenty minutes from the office, and a ten-minute walk from our flats. I drove over after work and waited in the car. Watching. Poised. There was no sign of him though.
Took Tink out for her evening constitutional around 11 p.m. Craig was snoring and I couldn’t lose myself in sleep at all. I was all nervy and gnawed on the inside and my legs were