Thornaby Accident Read online

  Thornaby Accident

  & other Dark Teesside stories

  By Glenn McGoldrick

  Text Copyright @2018

  Glenn McGoldrick

  All Rights Reserved

  For John, Craig, Tina and Tracey…

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  Contents

  Darling Wife

  Thornaby Accident

  Losing It

  Darling Wife

  I parked by Tees Barrage and watched the river for a while. Then I got out of the car, broke the bread into smaller pieces and scattered it in the grass.

  I sat in the car and listened to the radio, noticing a crow circling high over the bread. It landed on a lamppost, surveying the area.

  The crow swooped down, picked up a piece of bread in its beak and flew to a nearby field to bury the bread in the longer grass there. I watched the crow repeat the process five or six times, hiding pieces of bread in various nearby locations.

  Would he remember where he’d stashed all the bread? Why didn’t he eat some bread now? Was it even a male? How can you tell the difference?

  But the answers didn’t really matter. I was just killing time, taking a break from thinking about other things.

  The crow was eventually joined by a pair of seagulls; I watched them fight for a while then drove home. As I hung my jacket in the hall, I heard voices and laughter in the kitchen.

  I stood in the open doorway, watching them. A guy in his late twenties. Thirty maybe. Dark hair. Handsome. She looked good, just like normal. Curly blonde hair. Good figure for almost forty.

  They were sat on stools at the breakfast bar, chatting and giggling, sipping wine. I noticed that their knees were touching. My darling wife.

  I coughed loudly. They stopped talking and looked at me.

  “You’re home early,” she said, and pointed to her friend. “This is Carl.”

  “Who was that?” I asked after he left.

  “Just a friend,” she said.

  “Yeah. A friend. Right. What was he doing here?”

  “We were just chatting, Philip,” she said, laughing. “Don’t be so paranoid.”

  “Well, I don’t want him in my house.”

  “Our house, Philip.” She had a way of saying my name, stressing the second syllable; I hated it.

  “I don’t know what you get up to outside, Jess, but I don’t want you bringing guys back to this house!”

  “Well I wouldn’t have to, if you were a real man.”

  “Jesus! Not this again.”

  “That’s right, Philip,” she said as I walked away. “Shake your head. Go to your room.”

  I drove through Great Ayton, up into the hills, stopping at the car park for Captain Cook’s Monument. I took a seat at a wooden picnic table under a large oak tree; it was shaded and cool, and the air smelled faintly of horse manure.

  I lit a cigarette and thought about my situation. Jess had been seeing other men, I suspected. But she’d never brought one home. What next? Would Carl be moving in? Or some other guy?

  Things had been strained for years, beginning to unravel when we found out that we couldn’t have kids. She didn’t say it, but I knew she blamed me. We drifted apart, and eventually stopped sleeping together.

  And now she was bringing guys home. Why were we even still together? I was sick of it, and wanted it to be over. We needed to talk.

  Flipping through the TV channels that evening, I killed time until she got home during the News At Ten show. I found her in her bedroom, sat on the side of the bed, removing her high heels.

  “Don’t you even think about divorce, Philip,” she said.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Are you afraid that you’ll have to go out and work for a living?”

  “Well, you’re good at making money, if nothing else.”

  “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Philip.”

  “You’re such a bitch!”

  “That’s right. And if you even try to leave me, you’ll regret it.”

  “What?”

  She stood up and moved closer to me. “I’ll tell everybody the real reason we haven’t got kids.”

  “But, it’s not my fault.”

  “Philip’s firing blanks, and he can’t even-”

  “Shut up, Jess! That’s enough.”

  The front door slammed an hour later. From my bedroom window, I watched Jess climb in her car and speed off. I went to the kitchen, fixed myself a large vodka and lit a cigarette.

  “What am I going to do?” I said, blowing out smoke.

  I finished my cigarette, topped up my drink, went to the lounge and switched on the TV. I skimmed through the channels, unable to concentrate.

  I wasn’t sure what she’d do next. Maybe it wasn’t all about the money with her. Maybe she enjoyed hurting me, as a punishment for not giving her kids.

  I ended up watching an old movie, black and white; I found it very interesting. When it finished, I realised I had an idea.

  “No fucking way, Phil,” I said aloud. “You can’t be serious.”

  I slept well, waking up with barely a hangover. Opening my curtains, I saw that Jess’s car was not there. Good.

  Sipping a coffee in the kitchen, I went over my idea in detail; the plan still seemed feasible. I called the office, and told my secretary I wouldn’t be in that day.

  Then I went to my garage, and lifted down a rolled-up rug that was stored on top of an old metal filing cabinet. Untying the strings that bound it, I stretched it out on the floor to its full length. I lay down on it, the ends of the material extending beyond my head and feet.

  “That’ll do,” I said, standing up.

  I rolled the rug back up, and returned it to where it was.

  Sitting on the picnic table beneath the oak tree, I smoked a cigarette and looked around; not a human or bird in sight.

  I took the spade from the boot of the Range Rover, and walked into the woods. Twenty metres in, I stopped by a clearing under a clump of silver birch trees.

  Looking around, I ensured there were no spectators. The spade bit into the earth easily, as I dug a hole. The ground was softer than I expected.

  “Good,” I said, then refilled the hole and used the rear of the spade’s blade to level the earth.

  I took a final look around, then walked slowly back to the car, committing the trail to memory.

  And now I’m sat in my car, facing the trees. I can see where I went in, just by that first silver birch. I can find the hole again, but I don’t know if I’ll ever fill it.

  I’m not sure if it’s something I could actually do. But when the walls are closing in, I have to consider all my options.

  Thornaby Accident

  I’m really worried about Jill. All of this radio nonsense. She’s starting to act weird. And I’m not one for superstition, but I wonder how she knows some of the things she’s asking me about. She hasn’t been the same since she came to live with me…

  I returned from work one night in the middle of January. It was about a week or so after Jill had moved in.

  After dinner we sat in the living room and watched some crappy TV. Then she told me about her day.

  “A woman crying?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what it sounded like.”

  “It could have been anything, Jill. Static from another station or something.”

  “I don’t know, Ronnie,” s
he said, tapping her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “I suppose so. I know it must sound weird.”

  “Just a bit,” I said. “Since when did you start listening to the radio anyway?”

  “Well, I thought I’d get some housework done while you were at work. And I just had the urge to put the radio on in the background.”

  “OK.”

  “So there was some current affairs programme, talking about the environment. I left it on while I cleaned the kitchen.”

  “And?”

  “Well, after a while, I realised I couldn’t hear it any more. So, I came in here to check the radio.”

  “Was it still on?”

  She looked at her fingernails for a few moments and thought about it.

  “Yeah, the lights were still on, but there was no sound. Then I heard crying, very lightly.”

  “And it was definitely coming from the radio?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure at first,” she said. “But when I leaned in towards the radio, I could hear it more clearly. Then it went quiet for a few seconds. Then the current affairs programme came back on and startled me a bit.”

  “Spooky,” I said.

  She got annoyed at my flippant attitude, but later we both laughed about it.

  Later that week we had dinner with Jill’s parents in Stockton. It was dark when we left, and a light rain started to fall as I drove us home.

  “They’re still not sure about me, are they?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “They’re just getting to know you.”

  “Just getting to know me? We’ve been together two years, Jill.”

  “I know, love. They like you,” she said, squeezing my knee. “Trust me.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  I fiddled with the windscreen wipers for a few minutes; the rain was not quite heavy enough to really need them, but just enough to blur the windscreen if I didn’t use them.

  “Have you heard any more radio sounds?”

  “No, not really,” she said.

  “What, then?”

  She stared out of the passenger window, ignoring me.

  “Come on,” I said. “What did you hear now?”

  “It’s stupid, Ronnie. You’ll only laugh.”

  “No I won’t.”

  She turned to look at me and said, “You’d better not.”

  “Promise,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “It was a voice.”

  “Really? The woman again?”

  “Yeah, it was a woman’s voice.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Baldy.”

  “What?”

  “It sounded like she was saying ‘baldy’.”

  “Baldy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Baldy?”

  “Go on, laugh if you like,” she said, turning to stare out of the window again. “I know what I heard.”

  Jill went straight to bed when we arrived home. I sat at the kitchen table, sipped a brandy and thought about the conversation we’d had in the car…

  Linda used to call me baldy. I had plenty of hair, but it receded a little at the front; she used to like teasing me about it.

  She had her accident in October 2014. We were arguing in the kitchen, exchanging insults.

  She grabbed what was close to hand, a potato, and threw it at me. I threw it back at her, and when she ducked out of the way she hit her head on the sharp corner of the oven extractor hood.

  That’s what killed her, and that’s what I told the Police.

  In February Jill was doing fewer hours at work. I was a senior partner at the law firm and I was earning enough for both of us.

  So I didn’t mind her spending more time around the house, keeping the place tidy, having lunches with her friends.

  Most nights after dinner we’d watch TV and chat; some nights she’d lose interest in the TV, take the radio into the conservatory and listen to it until bedtime. It reminded me of Linda…

  She’d listen to her favourite radio shows, sitting in the seat by the window, making her glass of wine last an hour. She sat there more frequently as our relationship steadily unravelled.

  Early in March, I almost bumped into an old friend at the petrol station.

  Gary Ealing. Linda was good friends with his wife, so the four of us would often meet up for a few drinks in Yarm. The Black Bull, The Ketton Ox and a few other pubs.

  I saw him filling up his Mercedes, just as I pulled in. But I didn’t get out of my car. I didn’t want to say hello or stop and chat.

  That’s the main reason why I sold the Yarm house and moved back to Thornaby; to avoid bumping into old friends, or Linda’s family, making awkward small talk, sensing questions that they wanted to ask but didn’t.

  I drove to the petrol station in Ingleby Barwick and topped up.

  When I got home, I found Jill sleeping on the sofa. She seemed to be trembling a little; probably a bad dream. I shook her shoulder gently, and she started to wake up.

  By the time I brought our coffees back from the kitchen, she was sitting up, looking clear eyed. I told her about almost bumping into Gary Ealing.

  “You do a lot of that, don’t you?” she asked.

  “A lot of what?”

  “Avoiding people from Yarm.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Well,” I said. “You know why. It’s awkward.”

  “I bet it is.”

  Her blonde hair and blue eyes normally gave her a warm and friendly appearance, but not then; there was a harder edge to her that I’d not seen before.

  “What’s up with you, Jill? What’s got into you lately?”

  But she didn’t answer. She just went into the conservatory and turned on the radio. She hadn’t even touched her coffee.

  A few nights later, after getting the silent treatment from Jill, and fed up with eating dinner alone, I decided it was time for us to talk.

  I found her in the conservatory, sitting in a wicker chair, listening to the radio; she turned the volume down as I entered.

  I asked her just what on earth was going on with us.

  “Linda told me why you didn’t have kids.”

  “She told you?” I said. “What do you mean? She’s dead.”

  “We talk on the radio.”

  “Come on, Jill. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

  She thought about it, then shook her head.

  “Is it true?” she said.

  “Is what true?”

  “That you couldn’t have kids? You were infertile?”

  “What?” I said. “No!”

  “It is true. I can see it in your face.”

  “Stop this, Jill. You sound nuts.”

  “She says that’s the reason you were always arguing.”

  “No, it’s not true,” I said. “I can’t talk to you like this.”

  “What else have you been hiding from me?” she called as I walked out of the conservatory.

  Last night Jill was waiting for me in the hallway when I returned from work.

  “She told me about the potato,” she said.

  I let out a long sigh as I unbuttoned my jacket.

  “What potato?”

  “That potato story you told the police. Linda says it’s just bullshit.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jill!” I said. “I told you what happened.”

  “Linda says it’s a lie.”

  “Linda’s dead, Jill. She’s dead. Who’s putting all these ideas in your head?”

  “What really happened, Ronnie?”

  Today I sat on a wooden bench in the cemetery for a few hours. I listened to the light sound of traffic on the nearby A19 as I thought things over.

  I saw two balloons, white and blue, caught high in the bare branches of a Poplar, dancing in the wind, hitting each other, the sound like distant drums.

  When I returned home, I watched Jill from the open doorway; she was sitting by the radio, listening, nodd
ing her head.

  So, she’s really got me worried. Does she really hear Linda’s voice? I don’t know. How’s that even possible? But she’s asking me about things that could get me into a lot of trouble with the police.

  Maybe she’ll have an accident soon – and I’d better not take too long preparing it.

  Losing It

  “Jesus!” David said, looking at the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. He shook his head as he rinsed two cups. Taking the coffees to the living room, he placed one cup on the small table beside his father’s chair.

  “Watch out for that, Dad,” he said. “It’s hot.”

  “OK, son. Thanks.”

  David looked at his father, taking in the unshaven face.

  “So, how’ve you been?

  “I’m OK, son. I’m alright.”

  “Have you been getting out much?”

  “I went to Stockton on Monday. To the Post Office. Or was it Tuesday…”

  David sipped his coffee, noticing his father’s mismatched socks.

  Following dinner that evening, David and Natasha drank a glass of wine in their living room.

  “I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea,” she said, running a hand through her black hair.

  “I’m worried about him, Nat. He hasn’t been the same since Mum died.”

  “That was a year ago, David.”

  “Exactly. And he’s still pretty low. He’s got nobody to go out with.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, come on, Nat,” he said, placing a hand on her thigh. “Please. He won’t be a nuisance.”

  “OK, then,” she said. “But he’s not living here for free.”

  David helped his father move in at the weekend; he helped Alan organise his new bedroom, then gave him a quick tour of the house.