The Mutual: Chapter 2
A work in progress
Here’s the next instalment of a story about friendships, loneliness and the quest for mid-life happiness. The first chapter can be read here.
The story so far: Kitty Burtenshaw has found herself fifty-five and friendless, and wondering how it got to this point. Reflecting on her past friendships, she reassures herself that she has shed her old self, and life will now be lived on her terms.
That is until an old work friend - Zelda Pecure - contacts her, explaining that a mutual friend of theirs - Christine Lanchester - is a murderer.
Kitty regards Zelda’s panic as nonsense. But then, a few days later, she receives a message from another voice from the past: Christine.
“Do you know someone called Zelda Pecure? I think she wants to kill me.”
I left the coffee shop with the smell of bitter coffee and twisted conversation clinging to my clothes and pores. Headed straight to the Tesco Metro. I don’t know why.
I found myself standing over a metal mesh display of Christmas puddings for one, staring at them for an age. Instead of picking one up, I headed to an expansive display of Christmas food, picking up a Christmas pudding for six.
Back in my Victoria Park downstairs maisonette, I drowned a hefty landslide of Christmas pudding in custard, watching Strictly Come Dancing from my sofa, blotting out any memory of my conversation with Christine.
Then came the ping on my Fitbit. Then my phone. Then my open laptop on the dining table. E-mails.
‘What if something happens to me? I could die right now on the sofa and nobody would know. Or care.’
Christine.
She, who cut me out of her life for reasons unknown to me. When I questioned her, years ago, all she could say was ‘You know why’. I genuinely didn’t and grew tired of repeatedly asking her to explain. One perceived threat of death and she wants to talk to me, without any explanation of why she had previously stopped. To make sense of any of this, I have to return to the starting point: Zelda Pecure.
I would guess she’s around forty-five (at a guess), married to a beer-bellied man called Markus, who runs a newsagents. He spends his evenings playing games online, shooting strangers. Zelda sits alone in her armchair watching Scandi-Noir or serial killer documentaries. This was all normal and fine to Zelda and Markus. So long as Markus gave her a passing rub on the shoulder on his way to the toilet, all was well.
How do I know all this? She told me. Everything. Zelda suffers from anxiety and has a lot of nervous energy. In a room full of people she’s anonymous, but one-on-one she just doesn’t have any boundaries. She once told me how often she visits the toilet in a day, but before I could ask why she was telling me this she was on to the next subject. Rolling waves of unconnected information provoked an ‘Oh’ from me, because what else could I say?
Zelda was always working on her first novel: The ultimate murder mystery book. She would ask for my opinion on plot and character, but would always cut me off mid-sentence with whatever was on her mind, and ask my opinion once more, cutting me off again before I could fully deliver it. Some would consider this rudeness or some sort of disorder, but I think that’s just who Zelda is.
She spends her spare time watching people. On her way to work, she would listen in on conversations on the bus, and if they were useful she would add them to her book. She would make notes on those sat nearby at her favourite coffee shop. Zelda was always on the lookout for a good character.
*waitress with a tattoo across her shin - Tolerance of pain? Desire for pain? Clompy-footed in black boots.
*Blonde lady in a black long-sleeve top who looks like Mariella Frostrup.
*The coffee shop is a family-run business. All of the staff have the same dark hair and long features.
*Bald man. Stubble. Wearing a black top under a sky-blue blazer. Could be a hitman or maybe works in property development?
*Man. Looks like Paddy Considine. Is it him?
Later, at Mile End station, the train pulled in. Zelda reached for her pen and notepad as passengers unloaded from the carriage.
*Young woman in white boots, black leggings, big hair and exotic features. Her jacket isn’t Burberry. Sort of like it, but with pink lines. Maybe it is? Looks like an assassin.
*Two men with ripped jeans and plaid overshirts sit on a bench. Could be hitmen or footsoldiers to a bigger crime boss?
Her dream is a home by the sea and a window with a view. Instead, she lives above her husband’s place of work in Elm Park. At weekends, when Markus is manning the till downstairs, Zelda likes to pretend she’s being interviewed at a book event. Whether she’s wrapping a towel around her freshly showered body or waiting for the kettle to boil, there’s always a question to be answered about her work. Her lifelong dedication to solving mysteries.
During lunch breaks, she would turn her back to the rest of the office, head buried in the latest Compton Larbey novel. She once attended a crime writing seminar where Larbey was the guest speaker. At one point the workshop host asked the delegates to get into groups of two, to pitch each other their idea for a crime story. Zelda anxiously looked around the room as the other delegates paired off.
Zelda approached a woman with kind eyes, but at the final moment she turned away to talk to the person beside her. Zelda’s eyes dotted around at the groups of two which surrounded her. Desperate to find someone, she weaved around the room in a daze before spotting a lone figure in a loose cotton suit at the back of the room. Certain that the man in the suit was just waiting for a partner, she paced up to him.
‘Would you like to… What-what’s your idea? For your book?’ stammered Zelda. The man scowled at her like she was some sort of fool.
‘I’m the guest speaker,’ he spat with disbelief that he hadn’t been recognised.
‘You’re Compton Larbey? Sorry… I didn’t recognise you.’
Why would she? Larbey looked nothing like he did on the inside of the back of his books. This man looked about twenty years older, hairier and three stone heavier. Larbey glared at Zelda in the hope she would go away.
‘Mister Larbey. I’ve read all your books,’ sputtered Zelda.
‘So have I. So have I,’ Larbey wearily replied, as the workshop host paced up to greet him, deliberately blocking Zelda. She watched as the two men stepped outside in important conversation. Zelda gazed around the room, chest heavy at the sight of the chatty pairs of would-be crime writers.
The following Monday, Zelda imparted to me all of the knowledge gleaned from the guest speaker, Compton Larbey.
‘Not having any friends is a red flag for a serial killer. Compton Larbey said you have to ask yourself why this person has no friends? To keep asking why. Why are they so hard to relate to? Really probe in great detail the reasons why a serial killer finds it so hard to get along with others.’
‘Being a serial killer is a bit of a social no-no, isn’t it?’ I replied, half-listening across the desk at Zelda’s dazzling new insight into the minds of murderers.
‘Being friendless is a sign of a potential killer,’ stated Zelda, raising a wagging finger to somehow strengthen her point.
‘I don’t have any friends,’ I say.
‘You say that as if you’re proud of that fact,’ replied Zelda. ‘Besides, that’s not true. You’ve got me.’
I smiled up at her whilst my fingers frantically googled ‘Does having no friends mean you’re a serial killer?’ I didn’t like the results.
At home that evening, I continued my research into what was wrong with me. Apparently the average American says they have about nine close friends.
Nine.
I knew I’d been a sort of loner for most of my life, but as I poked around for a sign of encouragement, I learnt that being a loner could indicate some sort of mental illness. Depression. Schizophrenia. Certainly, I liked my routine with no surprises, but I felt a sting of shame. I must try harder. To be a better friend. Be someone others want to keep and not use up and cast aside.
So with dedicated gusto, I threw myself into my friendship with Zelda. I read her short stories and ideas for crime novels. I’d help her with the killer’s motivation, even though she would often veto anything I had to suggest like I couldn’t possibly come up with anything of use.
Such was the fear of being alone, I agreed to anything Zelda said or wanted to do, all the time hating it because I didn’t want to do it. I resented her, and would frequently feel a smothering urge to run away.
I couldn’t be friendless, not at my age. But, as always, it all came to an end after my panic attack at a Scandi-Noir convention. I just couldn’t do it anymore.
‘Start at the beginning.’
I’d heard enough of Zelda’s rambling to know she was swamping me with her typical leaps of imagination and paranoia, and I had to cease her crazy talk because I wasn’t here for that. When I agreed to meet up with Zelda it was because I thought she wanted to kickstart our stalled friendship.
I didn’t pay almost six pounds for a coffee just to hear bizarre conjecture about Christine Lanchester being a killer. That kind of talk was better suited for one of Zelda’s dead-body novels.
By her pursed lips and pointed glare, I had the sneaky feeling Zelda was about to give me both barrels. I’d never seen her so fired up. But still, I clung to my righteousness. Zelda was being being ridiculous.
‘Well.’ is all she had to say before inflaming my minor suspicion that I was about to be proved wrong.
It all began, typically, at an author interview which took place in a lecture room at Regent’s Park University. Part of another one of those weekend-long Murder/Mystery festivals with hundreds of delegates attending numerous workshops, talks and interviews with some famous (and some not so) crime novelists and non-fiction authors and documentarians.
As usual, Zelda spent the weekend meandering from one lecture room to another, sipping coffee on her own in the courtyard during breaks, and eating lunch alone in the cafeteria. All the while she was waiting for a one-hour interview with Compton Larbey, her mind buzzed with fresh insight and pearls of wisdom about how to get away with murder (or not).
Zelda tapped away on her laptop, projecting an image of a master craftsperson engrossed in their work. A great mind working on another unsolvable mystery. Zelda does this because of her social anxiety. She hates being surrounded by lots of people, it drains her energy and heightens her loneliness. One-to-one, face-to-face, Zelda can talk. In fact, I don’t know why she hasn’t used ‘death by shooting one's mouth off’ as a method of murder in one of her novels.
Zelda finished her lunch before the rest of the delegates, as she wanted to be first in line to nab the best seat for Larbey’s interview. She packed away her lunchbox and flask and closed her laptop, zipping it into a carry case. She stood, halting at the sight of something on the table in front of her.
A memory stick.
She didn’t recall it being there before - she would have definitely noticed it being there. There was no one sitting near her. Zelda reached for it, sliding it discreetly towards her, just in case anyone was watching. She searched around for signs of its owner once more. The rest of the hall was deep in conversation. They didn’t even know Zelda was even there.
Without a thought, Zelda swiped up the USB stick and stuffed it in her coat pocket, pacing away.
During our one-sided conversation at the coffee shop, I managed to pose one vital question to Zelda: ‘Why didn’t you hand it into lost property?’
‘How could I trust another person with it? It could have had anything on it. Personal information.’
Which it did, although it was a few weeks later before Zelda rediscovered the USB. She was sitting at the back of the bus, eavesdropping on a conversation between a well-spoken sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, her younger friends and an older boy, possibly eighteen or so. The girl was holding court, spread across the seats in an attempt to impress the younger ones and to appeal to the rougher-looking boy, who appeared far beneath her standards.
‘… Do you know Corinne Jameson? I wouldn’t say she’s fat at all, but she is a lump. She’s got a bum and boobs, but she’s just hideously bumpy.’
A smirk cracked in the corner of Zelda’s mouth. The girl continued her appraisal of another mutual friend. ‘There’s a really nice guy, Danny Hawkins…’
‘Yeah, I know him.’ replied the young man, sounding bored or playing it cool. Zelda couldn’t tell.
‘Yeah, but have you seen his face? It’s like Armageddon. And he dared to ask me out. I’m like, have you looked in the mirror? You’re so not in my league…’
Zelda’s grin spread across her face. She reached into her coat pocket, taking out a pen and a notepad, scribbling down the continuing teenage showboating.
‘It’s like, good-looking girls whose parents are ugly. It’s like, how did she ever turn out to be so pretty when her parents look like cave Troggs?’
Zelda snorted amusement as she scrawled in her notepad, attracting looks from the school girls. Zelda gently cleared her throat, slowly placing the notepad back into her coat pocket as if she were simply stretching her limbs. It was then that she discovered an alien item in her pocket.
That evening at home in their maisonette, her husband Marcus tapped at his console controller, yelling at anonymous teenagers for being ‘newbies’ and ‘sweats’. This was all background noise for Zelda, who sat at their leaf-fold table, USB stick in hand. Plugging it into her laptop, Zelda opened the drive to find it full of folders, files, jpegs and mp3s.
Opening of the first few documents, Zelda soon learnt the owner of the USB’s name, her address, home phone number, mobile number, and e-mail address.
Christmas present lists. PDFs of bank statements, including all bank details. A couple of folders of music: One with songs by Dido, the other was Hard-Fi’s first album in its entirety.
Then it all got much more juicy.
Work-related Word documents about a sexual harassment claim and another about an unfair dismissal.
Letters of complaint to a vast array of companies regarding faulty products and rudeness of shop staff.
Correspondence from solicitors relating to her divorce.
A draft of an e-mail regarding the breakdown of a friendship.
A text file with one word in it. Possibly a password?
Zelda stopped herself for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt. She knew it wasn’t right to read this stuff. This was someone’s life. A total stranger. A stranger who had no idea Zelda was reading it, so why not read a little more?
After all, she felt invested in this person’s life, whoever they were. Zelda clicked on more documents.
Far deeper, personal, murkier stuff. Memes expressing a desperate need for a man. Jpegs of men in their forties who considered these particular images of themselves as showing their best side, although Zelda suspected these photos had been taken a long time ago.
Her taste, or luck with men, was unfortunate. Her mistrust and passive-aggressive tone was well-placed.
Reading through saved messages to and from various men, Zelda’s heart sank. All this poor woman wanted was some love, some company, some respect. Instead, she was ghosted repeatedly by businesses that didn’t feel the need to reply to her complaints about broken sweetener containers and a shard of metal in her frozen cod fillet.
Ghosted by men who had played on her insecurities and exploited her weakness.
‘Who the hell keeps all of that information on a memory stick?’ I asked Zelda.
‘Christine Lanchester does.’
And the thing is, I totally believed it.
(Photo by Hannah Rodrigo)
Copyright © 2023 Andrew Wright