It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller

  It’s Killing Jerry © Copyright 2016 by Sharn Hutton.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact www.sharnhutton.com.

  Book and cover design by Sharn Hutton.

  ISBN-13: 978-1539731849

  First Edition: November 2016.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  PROLOGUE

  THE IMAGE OF A CRISP-UNIFORMED POLICE OFFICER FILLED THE TV SCREEN. Bathed in sunshine, his features were rounded and friendly, but said more hopeful puppy than hardnosed detective. He ducked his head, cleared his throat and gazed down the lens.

  “My name is Detective Dinwiddy,” he began, speaking slowly and carefully, “and I am investigating the disappearance and suspected murder of one Jeremy Brian Adler, a British man.”

  Three pairs of eyes widened on the sofa and snapped to the screen.

  “Do you have any suspects, Detective?” barked a voice out of shot.

  “Well, I am still conducting my investigation.” He nodded deliberately to someone beside the camera, then back to the lens. “But there are certainly some individuals I would like to interview.” Dinwiddy held up a photo and the camera zoomed in.

  The line of people on the sofa recognised it as Jerry’s passport photo, but only two jaws descended in a gape. The newscast had arrived out of the blue and with such authority: a nugget of truth beamed over the airwaves and into their living room, a living room that hadn’t seen much honesty for a while.

  In the short-lived hush that followed, Isabell’s heart beat so hard she wondered if the people to either side could hear the pounding in her chest. Jerry being dead changed everything. It meant she didn’t have to pretend.

  ONE

  FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

  JEREMY DEAR, CAN YOU COME OVER ON SUNDAY TO CONNECT MY NEW COMPUTER TO THE DANGLE—DADDY DOESN’T UNDERSTAND IT. THANK YOU. THIS IS YOUR MOTHER.

  Jerry lounged against the kitchen counter, new green jogging bottoms pinching up a roll of flab at his midriff. He surveyed the text and tapped reply.

  NO NEED TO TELL ME WHO YOU ARE MUM. TO THE DANGLE EH? ARE YOU INTO SOMETHING KINKY? NO WONDER DAD’S A BIT FLUMMOXED

  He tapped send and smirked. Jerry’s mother was not a woman to be trifled with and wilful misinterpretation of her words was guaranteed to get her hackles up. Jerry knew she’d be forced to restrain herself as she was looking for a favour. Almost immediately it beeped in reply.

  DON’T BE SO PUERILE JEREMY. YOU KNOW PERFECTLY WELL WHAT I MEAN. WHAT TIME SHALL I EXPECT YOU? MUMMY.

  Of course, Jerry’s attendance was never really in question, so he angled for lunch in his reply. Decent food had been in short supply since Rachel had returned from the hospital with their first child in tow a couple of months ago. One of Mum’s Sunday roasts would go down a treat.

  Jerry slid the phone into his back pocket, put his hands on his hips and pursed his lips. “Jeh-remy!” he called out in impersonation, “Don’t mock my dangle! Daddy doesn’t understand it!” He minced over to the table, right arm held tightly cocked to his chest, fingers bent over. “Jeh-remy, really!”

  He let his eyes trail across the spread of unopened brown envelopes on the table and settled instead on the paper, flicking it open from the back. The Blues were dicing with relegation.

  “Nearly ready?” Rachel appeared in the kitchen doorway, crumpled T-shirt hanging limp over faded grey jeans.

  “Hmm?” Jerry turned another page, looking for news on the Gunners.

  “The bottles, Jerry. Is the steriliser running?”

  “Steriliser?” He looked over his shoulder at her, tapping at his bottom lip with a stiff forefinger. “Was I meant to…?”

  “Yes, you were meant to. Of course you were meant to. When I say: it’s time for a feed, could you put the bottles on? What else could that possibly mean?”

  “Oh. Um. I thought maybe put the bottles on the counter, ready, you know?”

  “No.”

  “Well, ready to the put the milk in.”

  Rachel looked up and down the kitchen work surface with exaggerated sweeps of her head. “So where are they then, these bottles that you’ve put on the counter, ready?”

  “Um.” Jerry turned, perched on the table’s edge and pushed back a floppy mouse brown curl from his eyes. “Hey, well, I had to get changed, of course, ready for the gym. Leaner, meaner, fitter husband and all that and then there was the, er, message. Very important one actually. One’s expertise is required.” He wobbled his head in feigned pride, but Rachel didn’t want to hear it. She raised her palm to stop his flow and let out a warbling laugh that rattled a little too high. “Don’t tell me any more. You haven’t done it. Why am I surprised? Why should I be surprised? I’m not surprised. You never fucking do anything.” She started sorting through the waiting crockery at the sink, dismantling bottles and tossing them into the bowl. “I’ll do it, shall I? Yeah, why not?”

  She cranked the hot tap on full and shoved through the clutter to reach for the detergent. A displaced dirty coffee cup slid from the counter to the floor, where it chinked off its handle and rolled to rest in a puddle of grey milky liquid. Rachel closed her eyes for a beat then plunged on with the bottle washing, banging each soapy piece down on the drainer as she went. “I’m amazed you can even get yourself to the gym.” She turned to look him up and down. “Although of course, you haven’t yet, have you?” She gave the bottles a hasty wipe over with a muslin cloth and wedged them into the steriliser. “Don’t wear yourself out, don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Jerry snorted out a laugh, but a quick glance revealed Rachel not to be smiling. She stared down at her feet and scraped a stray lock of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Look, Jerry, do you think you could cover the night feed tonight?” Her tone was short and tired. Jerry rubbed at his neck. “Um, well I’d like to help, but she doesn’t seem to like it when I do it.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Jerry sucked his lips against his teeth. “There’ll be all that crying and you’ll end up awake anyway. I think she needs her mother, Rach.”

  “She cries anyway.”

  Jerry blew out his lips in a fleshy rattle, “Yeah, but I have to go to work in the morning. I’ll be dead on my feet.”

  “Unlike me.” Their eyes locked for a moment and Jerry was the first to turn away, suddenly interested in the newspaper again. He heard Rachel trudge from the room and up the stairs. The steriliser hissed.

  “Jeh-remy! Look at Daddy’s dongle!” He cocked his hand back to his chest and gave a little head wobble. “Ah, mm, yes,” he sighed and looked over his shoulder to where his wife no longer stood. He really ought to be a bit more helpful. Wouldn’t hurt him to make up just one bottle.

  With that in mind he drifted over to the steriliser, which gurgled and clicked, still busy with its business. He could get a bottle ready, wiggle his way back into Rachel’s good books. The trouble with all this domestic stuff was that it was all just so dull. It was an endless cycle of thankless tasks where there was never any progress, only the maintenance of equilibrium. Life at the office felt much the same. Every day he worked on PR programs to sell the sizzle of his client’s newest sausage, only for it to be replaced a few months down the line with something tastier.
He was a cog in a churning machine and it was all just so dull, dull, dull.

  Jerry pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. “Remi here.” He spoke in a hushed tone, pretending to answer a non-existent call. “A mission? I’m listening, Aqua. Yes, I can put together a hydro bomb. I’m on it.” He squinted out into the hallway, checking for spies and, seeing none, made his way to the furthest wall cabinet, next to the kitchen window. Snapping open the door, he scanned its contents: marmalade; Super Noodles; SMA. “Ah, there you are, the secret formula.”

  Jerry carefully manoeuvred the tin of milk powder with both hands from cupboard shelf to countertop. He pulled at the neckline of his sweatshirt and spoke into the collar. “I am ‘go’ for formula. Commencing opening sequence.” Jerry cracked his knuckles, spread his feet apart and flexed at the knee. Very slowly he clicked up the rim of the lid and ran his thumb around the circumference to free it. Once it was loose, he cautiously lifted the lid and placed it beside the tin on the counter.

  “Clear, clear, lid clear,” he informed the fantasy Spy Master.

  A quick scan of the instructions on the side of the tin revealed the necessity for boiled water and accurate measurement using the doll-size plastic scoop Jerry had discovered inside. He laid his palm against the kettle and snatched it away again to tuck into his armpit, belatedly remembering the cup of tea he’d just drunk. He bit at his lip and eyed the steaming steriliser suspiciously. He wasn’t taking any chances with that.

  “Aqua, radiation levels are increasing, switching to thermo tongs.”

  The cooking tongs hanging behind the hob would do nicely.

  “Agent Remi on point,” Jerry breathed, pinching off the steriliser lid and tossing it into the sink. A great cloud of steam mushroomed into his face and up to the ceiling.

  He found the tongs were remarkably agile, considering their culinary heritage, and picked out a bottle with ease. Jerry filled it with water from the kettle and scooped in the requisite amount of powder. The top and teat proved somewhat more difficult to capture with the tongs and spent a brief time on the floor. Jerry checked the hallway for spies once more. “Five second rule,” he mumbled, scooping them up and giving them a blow, before screwing them into place. Returning to the tongs, he clamped the bottle and transported it to the kitchen table, where he stood it in central isolation.

  “Aqua, mission complete, Remi out,” Jerry informed his collar, “Don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

  He surveyed the kitchen counter and decided that the clutter should wait for Rachel. After all, she’d need to make up the rest of the bottles and she was bound to spill a bit too, wasn’t she? No sense cleaning up twice.

  Jerry snatched up his gym bag and bounded out into the hall. “I’m off, Rach, see you later. Milk’s done.”

  “Oh, oh thanks, Jerry,” Rachel called, from out of sight. She actually sounded really pleased: a rare response to Jerry’s activities. Amazing what a little imagination could achieve. It was rather a shame that a few minutes later, whilst Jerry bounced happily along the High Street toward the gym, Rachel would discover his parting gift to be much less pleasing. Returning to the kitchen, mewing baby clutched to her chest, she would find the lidless, steam-free steriliser, open formula tin and scattered powder. “Lovely,” she’d say with a sigh, “Just lovely.”

  TWO

  ADAM CONSUMED THE SWEET SCENT OF NEW LEATHER and pinched soft nubuck between finger and thumb. Eyes closed, he sank into the chair and pictured it in his near-empty apartment. Vacant space by the living room window could be handsomely occupied by this Eames lounger. Minimalism just wasn’t him anymore: he was filling up.

  He’d allowed work to seep out of the courtroom and pollute the rest of his life. Staking its claim on early evenings and eventually weekends, it had absorbed him, until nothing remained. The only release had been time spent at Solomon’s Gym, burning off stress that came hand in hand with his salary, not at home, never at home. Home reflected his personal life and was to be avoided. Bleak in its rich emptiness, his kitchen was all stainless steel and granite, but he never cooked. Plastic-wrapped instruction manuals lay undigested in the bellies of professional appliances. Cooking was so elaborate, especially when it was just for one. He’d had no reason to bother when there were so many talented chefs a taxi ride away.

  Adam spun the chair with boyish enthusiasm. He made a full turn, the colours and shapes of the shop rushing past in a blur, then walked the chair around a second time, stopping to face out into the elegant showroom. Sofas and lighting, dining tables and crockery: snippets of the home he craved. A dozen room sets: lost in this cavernous space, but still each one held promise.

  Adam raked through his dark mop of hair, grown long since it didn’t matter, and considered his options. He could buy anything here. He could fill his home with furniture, shag pile to chandelier. He could build the vision of his dream, but the most important element would not be found amongst this shop’s displays of linen and glass.

  His bright eyes scoured for inspiration and away to the left came to rest upon an unexpected pair of floral pumps, flopped over the end of a sofa he could see only from the back. Their owner was lost behind its cushions. Soles being uppermost, whoever they were, they must have been face down. Adam smiled; there was company in his fantasy today.

  He rose from the chair and picked his way across the floor, toward the vast windows that spanned the front of the shop. Bedroom sets spread out before him: cherries and stripes; daisies and leaves. With no idea what to choose, he pushed his hands deep into jean pockets and ambled on. A fashionable futon or an opulent four-poster?

  Bedroom paraphernalia gave way to sofas and chic table lamps, slotted together in a sociable jigsaw. Adam wandered amongst them: considering; imagining.

  Up ahead, sun streamed in from the street to creep across the deep pile of an ochre rug and up a velvet sofa’s plum upholstery to where the woman lay—the wearer of the floral shoes. As he rounded a bank of tall shelves, she came into full view. Golden rays lit the waves of brunette hair that fell across her forehead. Frozen in their warmth she lay still, aside from the gentle rise and fall of her chest in the even rhythm of sleep. Adam recognised her at once. Grace.

  Hope edged past surprise. What was she doing here? Had she intended for them meet? How could she have known where he was? Adam tried to shake off his reaction. It was ridiculous for her to affect him like that after all this time. He’d moved on, forgiven himself, hadn’t he? But now she was here and unwelcome emotion clawed its way through.

  Adam rubbed his chest and leant heavily against a bookcase to absorb the impossible vision: sheer pink cotton fell across long slender legs and just short of the floral pumps he’d seen from the other side of the room—anonymous then. The soft wool pashmina that draped across her shoulders enveloped her in a blanket-like embrace. The image transposed so easily into Adam’s vision of home, he accepted it too readily, lingering over her ’til stars sparkled at the periphery of his vision and reminded him to breathe. She was still beautiful. Her eyelids fluttered. She was also waking up.

  With consciousness came the obvious realisation of where she was and, fighting off the cushions, she scrambled upright. Adam watched, mute and immobile, as she checked the immediate area and, not spotting him stuck limpet-like to the bookcase nor anyone else, assumed a more dignified position with a mortified smile. On her feet and then sauntering away from him into the depths of the store, she paused to examine items here and there and was soon lost in her appreciation of the fine things around her. The thin cotton of her dress clung and billowed in turn as she walked, giving Adam tantalising glimpses of the form beneath. Her pale skin glowed. Engrossed as she was in her own world and utterly detached from his, Adam felt a rising need to be noticed.

  He broke his cover to pursue her at a distance, pausing to watch as she caressed the sparkling crystal set out for an imaginary banquet in an opulent dining room charade. She pulled out a chair and sat, admiring
the scene.

  It had been years. Five at least since she’d got tired of waiting. ‘Marry the damn job,’ she’d said before she left, so he had. Twenty-four-seven: consumed by the system, the caveats and back doors. Clients fought for a spot on his schedule: the man who lived and breathed manipulation of the law. There was no time for loneliness. Until enough was enough.

  Five years could change a person. That silky brunette hair seemed the same, but the line of her jaw? A crack of doubt crept into Adam’s hope.

  Moving closer, he examined the tight smile that broke across her lips and the violet shadows smudged beneath her eyes. Her expression: inscrutable. Her features: not entirely familiar. Perplexed and fascinated, Adam drew closer, longing to reach out to her and to take her hand in his.

  He was just ten feet away when she leapt to her feet, scraped back the chair and abandoned it askew. She strode toward him, though her eyes were fixed on a spot far behind. Silenced by surprise, Adam stumbled away from the suddenly shrinking distance between them. He saw her clearer then: cheekbones too high; no mole on her cheek and his improbable hope was crushed. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t his Gracie. Bewildered and ignored, he caught a fleeting breath of the stranger’s scent as she strode past without looking back. All too soon she was out of the door and taken by the crowd.