It's Killing Jerry: A Comedy Thriller Page 2

  Adam felt the loss in his chest.

  THREE

  SPINK CRANED HIS NECK FOR A BETTER VIEW of the new junior as she rushed through the central office, arms piled high with fat manila files. “Gemma!” he bellowed and she juddered to a halt, satisfyingly startled, three files sliding from the top of her stack to spew their contents onto the floor. He watched them fall from the comfort of his private office. “Dying of thirst here, Gemma,” he said.

  She turned her whole body to face him, clamping the top of the remaining stack with her chin. Shame those files were blocking his view of her figure.

  “Sorry, Mr Spink. Would you like some tea?”

  So subservient, just how it should be. “One sugar this time and pick up that mess.” He turned away, a smile creeping across thin lips, then checked his reflection in the computer monitor on his desk.

  Donald Spink was in his early forties, but could have passed for a decade older. His hair greyed at the temples to match unruly eyebrows, and his diet of cigars and single malt had yellowed his eyes and drawn a thousand tiny thread veins across a bulbous nose. At a mere five foot five, he believed he more than compensated for his short stature with a powerful aura and superior wit and that as Sales Director at Locksley PR he was sure that no-one could doubt his success.

  Adjusting the angle of the screen, he watched Gemma’s skirt ride up her thigh as she wrestled her load safely to the floor to pick up the escaped files. Another figure joined her there. That prat Jerry Adler was helping her. What was the point of beating junior staff into submission if middle management were going to scrabble about on the floor after them? Spink’s fingernails drummed the desk and his lips pursed. “Adler. Get in here, would you?”

  Adler’s reflection rolled its eyes and Spink’s jaw tightened. He turned to glare at him directly as he sauntered in through the doorway, wearing that stupid grin.

  “Morning, Spink.”

  “I assume that if you’ve got time to chat up the office girl you’ve finished the PC City bid?” Spink raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Hey, I only got that last night. Haven’t had a chance yet,” Adler said, examining his scuffed brogues. He was thrown, Spink observed happily. “Then you don’t have time.”

  Adler rolled back around the door frame and out into the department, pushing an errant lock of mouse brown hair back from his eye and trundling away through the hum of clacking keyboards and telephone conversations. Hands in pockets, he eventually wheeled out of sight into his own side office.

  Spink narrowed his eyes then pulled a folder across his desk to scan through the staff reviews inside. Gemma wouldn’t be getting a pay rise. She was still on her trial period and as such he could get away with skipping over her. The rest of the staff was only getting twenty-five per cent and a few heads would have to be lost by the end of the year too. Spink wanted the low salary kids to work extra hard so he could cut a high earner or two from his budget and boost his own commission.

  Nicotine-stained fingers tapped at his keyboard and the screen flicked from the accounts package over to William Hill. He laid five hundred pounds on Lucky Lass to win in the 2:30. She felt like a winner.

  A skim through the runners in the 4 o’clock offered no inspiration so he logged out of his account and tabbed back to the office software. Pushing the keyboard away, he swivelled his chair to face the opposite side of his U-shaped desk. From here he could look out into the office beyond. Gemma scuttled up the central walkway that spanned its length, clutching laden crockery. Either side, the staff of Locksley PR busied themselves with the business of the day. Pale smart office furniture nestled in convivial groups upon the dark checkerboard carpet tile. Iconic Warhol sang from the walls.

  Spink watched Gemma’s perky breasts jiggle beneath her thin grey sweater and licked his lips. Her eyes were cast down. Embarrassed and compliant, she came into his office and set a cup of tea and a plate of unrequested chocolate digestives onto the desk in front of him. Spink gazed down her top as she leant forward and when she stepped back and met his eyes he gave her a smile of appreciation. “Thank you, Gemma. That’s wonderful.” One hand crept to his crotch.

  “You’re welcome,” she mumbled, wide-eyed, and hurried away to her filing. Eventually Spink’s gaze fell away from her receding behind and back to the bonus biscuits that waited on his desk. He snatched one up, dunked it into his tea and consumed it with gusto.

  FOUR

  JERRY’S LUNGS BURNED, but he battled on. Side by side at Solomon’s Gym in the village, he and Adam occupied the first two of a bank of twelve running machines that lined up parallel to the windows. Adam’s feet struck the whirring treadmill to the rhythm of the music gushing overhead. Jerry fought for enough oxygen to fuel one foot in front of the other.

  From this first floor vantage point, he could see shopkeepers pulling down their shutters across the street and locking up for the night. Even though Solomon’s windows didn’t open, he was sure he could pick up the aroma of fried chicken rising from the shop below. His stomach growled.

  Adam pounded on, chatting away with hardly a bead of sweat on his brow. To Jerry, he didn’t look like someone who’d been chained to a desk for the last six years. He was all lean muscle and bouncing hair.

  “Screw Dinky. He’s a worm,” Adam was saying.

  “Dinky, yeah, I’d forgotten you called him that.”

  “School nicknames get a lot worse. If he hadn’t made such a fuss about it, it wouldn’t have stuck.” He paused for reflection. “I may have helped it to stick. I don’t remember, it was a long time ago.” Adam grinned.

  “Yeah, right,” Jerry puffed out, stabbing at the treadmill controls to slow it to more of a manageable pace and then rolling to a stop. “Easy for you to say, anyway—the worm’s not your boss.” He staggered off the machine and bent to lean heavily on his thighs. Sweat dripped from his forehead to the thin blue carpet. Adam stepped off his own machine and stood by Jerry’s side.

  “Be your own master, Jerry. Those bastards at BSL owned me for too long.”

  “Yeah, must have been really shit being a top defence lawyer, earning bucketfuls of cash every time you walked into a room.” Jerry slumped against the exercise bike behind him. “I don’t understand why you’re giving it up, you loony.”

  Adam cocked a scathing eyebrow and Jerry climbed onto the bike without enthusiasm.

  “Four years at uni, Jerry; three more as a subservient dogsbody; another ten climbing the stinking ladder, just to get there—just to get to BSL. All that time and effort.” Adam shook his head, straddled his own bike and stood on the pedals. He pumped his feet to the relentless beat.

  Jerry could see: Adam had sold his soul to BSL. His talent for getting off villains had earned him an invincible reputation and pay cheques that convinced him what he was doing was right. Of course he was in demand. Eighteen-hour days hadn’t been unusual and with the money pouring in it was crazy to stop, wasn’t it? Six years went by in a flash. Until McGinty: the nasty piece of work that tipped the balance. Now Adam was out for good.

  Leaning on the handlebars, Jerry rested his forehead on his arm, chest heaving only slightly less. “Pathetic.” Adam jabbed without turning around. “Get your legs moving.” Jerry groaned and forced the pedals around without lifting his head. “I’m not sure if this is a good way to rekindle our friendship. You ignore me for years, completely disappearing out of my life. Then pop up all Buzz Lightyear and try to give me a heart attack.” Adam turned and scowled. “Buzz Lightyear?”

  “Yeah, you know: saving the universe from evil; all biceps and bounce. It’s exhausting, even before you drag me to the gym.”

  Adam snorted and went back to pedalling.

  Jerry knew he was not a natural where exercise was concerned, but since passing the landmark of forty, his own mortality was bothering him. Telling Adam he wanted to get fit for the sake of his new wife and even newer baby had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  They’d bumped into each ot
her in the locker room after at least five years of not seeing one another. Lost in the excitement of seeing his old school pal, Jerry had admitted he was struggling to train. He was unaware that Adam had just left the job that ‘sucked the life from him’ and now had endless spare time in which to berate him for his flabby gut, jelly arse and bingo wings. A mistake. He should have remembered Adam was like a dog with a bone. Perhaps if he kept pedalling slowly he’d leave him alone for a bit.

  “Free weights now, lard arse. Quick, there are two free spots.”

  Oh good.

  The gym was packed. The six ’til eight slot was always jammed with office workers squeezing in a flurry of activity before an evening slumped on the sofa. Solomon’s was a popular place. Situated on a smart run of local shops in the village, it occupied the first floor above Michael’s Deli, a barber shop and the ubiquitous Finger Lickin’ Chicken. Locals had made a fuss about the chain opening up there, saying that it spoilt local character, but fellow shopkeepers were glad to see it. Mr Solomon appreciated the symbiotic relationship between their businesses: exercise made you hungry and fast food made you fat.

  Adam threw his towel down next to the mirror and motioned for Jerry to join him.

  Jerry hated the free weights or, more specifically, Jerry hated the posers gathered in front of the mirrors using the free weights. Two free spots meant six others occupied by musclebound narcissists, flexing and grunting, posing for their peers and ogling their neighbours.

  Adam held out two 10kg dumbbells for Jerry to take, then swiped a couple of 20’s for himself.

  “Nnnngh. Nnngh. Yeah.” The beefcake in a tight cut-off leotard next to Jerry strained at his weights. Jerry swallowed back a little bile and turned his back on the mirror. “Think I’ll sit on the bench.”

  “Healthy body, healthy mind, Jerry.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. I know you want to get match fit for saving the world and everything.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make the world a better place. God knows, I didn’t improve it keeping so much toxic waste out of prison.” Adam switched to work on his left arm.

  “What I’m going to do, I don’t know, but for now, I’m all yours.” Adam stretched his arms wide to Jerry and gave him the benefit of his winning smile. Jerry shook his head, took up a weight and started a set.

  “Hey, what you need is a little imagination. You don’t have to run around knocking yourself out. Take me, for example. Boring job, spend my days pumping up the hype for people to buy shite they don’t really need and my evenings trying to avoid dirty nappies.”

  “You’re not selling it to me, Jerry.”

  “I’m not finished. I may lead a humdrum life but, with a bit of imagination, I can turn it into something exciting. Earlier on, for instance, making up a baby bottle to keep the love of my life happy. Boring stuff? But no!” He wagged a finger at Adam’s increasingly incredulous expression, “Not if you put a bit of imagination into it. Plastic bottle? No. Bomb case grade titanium canister. Milk formula? No. Hydro bomb primer.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. The point is that I am no longer Jerry: career-stunted, shit beleaguered new father, I am Remi: sports-car-driving secret agent sex god. You see? It’s all about what you make it.”

  “But it’s not real.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Perception governs experience, Adam. You’re all dissatisfied and lost. No need! Imagine yourself happy!”

  Adam’s face scrunched. “Nah, I need a change. I can’t just pretend that the last six years didn’t happen. There are consequences, Jerry. I have to make amends.”

  “Live out your dreams in your imagination—you can achieve anything!”

  “Still not real.” Adam shook his head and turned back to the mirror, checking the angle of his arm.

  “Look, OK, you’ve got me. You can’t pretend to go to work and earn pretend money because obviously the pretend food at the pretend supermarket isn’t all that filling. But it’s something to keep you going. Remi lives it up in my imagination: goes on adventures; total babe magnet; lives the life.” Jerry’s cheeks were starting to burn.

  “And what’s he doing now?” Adam enquired with creeping sarcasm.

  “Acapulco. On a mission for MI5.”

  “And you think I’m a loony.”

  “Look, it’s just a little light relief, OK? Something else to think about through a nappy change or a dull meeting. Remi gets to do all the stuff that I don’t. It’s all the excitement I get these days.” Jerry plonked his weights down onto the rack. “I’m going for a shower.”

  Adam’s eyebrows dropped back into their normal position. “OK. Enough for today eh? Let’s go.”

  Jerry scooped up his water bottle and strode for the exit. The thought of a post workout pint had given him an extra surge of energy and he pushed open the door grinning at Adam over his shoulder.

  “To infinity!” he said, punching the air. Adam rolled his eyes and flicked Jerry with his towel.

  “Bugger off, Jerry,” he said.

  FIVE

  JERRY’S TATTY FIAT BUCKED TO A HALT at the curb. He was outside the house he shared with Rachel and their new baby, known currently only as ‘Peanut’. It was a mid-terrace Victorian nestled on a pleasant residential road. An oblong of walled concrete with a rotting wooden gate set it back four feet from the pavement.

  The layout was standard Victorian fare: a small lounge off the narrow entrance hall at the front; the kitchen and dining room knocked together at the back. A small lobby beyond gave access to the garden and a downstairs bathroom. A steep staircase led to two reasonable sized bedrooms and a tiny third. Jerry’s boy’s toys had recently been relegated to the tiny third when Peanut arrived and commandeered the Man Cave.

  Rachel had done her best to decorate in various tones of white and grey. Homemade cushions and curtains gave the place a homely feel. The furniture, though pretty new, was showing the strain of a baby in the house. Mysterious stains adorned the sofa while towers of paper teetered on the coffee table. Painted bookcases groaned under volumes of parenting manuals and abandoned half-drunk cups of tea.

  It was pushing eight-thirty by the time Jerry scraped the garden gate across the path and made his way to the flaking blue front door. He crept in, clicking the door closed behind him. The hallway radiator was draped with a platoon of babygros, preparing to take on the next onslaught of milk vomit. Jerry sidestepped the pile of mail on the mat and slunk into the kitchen. “Sorry I’m a bit late, Rach, met Adam at the gym.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. Sitting at the scrubbed pine table with their baby cradled in her arms, she wore her usual uniform of baggy T-shirt and leggings, chestnut hair pulled back into a stubby bunch at the nape of her neck. Looking down at the infant through tired eyes, she pulled the milk-soaked muslin from her shoulder and shifted Peanut to the other side. “Pass me a fresh one, would you?” Rachel waved toward the pile of muslin cloths on the crammed kitchen counter. The clean bottles and formula tin from earlier jostled for space with last night’s dishes and folded laundry.

  Jerry passed one over and the feed continued. Podgy hands pushed the bottle away and piercing cries filled the air.

  “How’s the Peanut?” Jerry asked.

  “Cranky.” Then to Peanut, “You’re hungry, right? Well here it is: Milky, milky.” Peanut grabbed the bottle, sucked furiously for a few seconds then sicked the whole lot back up and down the front of her Micky Mouse vest. Rachel closed her eyes and sighed. “God, I need a break. Can you take over for a bit?” Jerry shuffled from foot to foot and his mobile rang. “Ah,” he said with a feigned seriousness, “I’d better answer that.”

  The heavily accented voice of his Spanish ex-wife rushed down the line, “Oh my God, Jerry. I need you to coming here!” Isabell. Not the comfortable distraction he’d hoped for. “Hey, I’m a bit busy right now, Isabell.” Rachel snapped to attention at the name, narrowing her eyes at Jerry. He gave her a weak smile in return and retreated
to the hallway.

  “No. No too busy for me. Is emergency!” Isabell shrilled into his ear.

  “What is it then?”

  “Oh my God. I am having the nightmare. You have to coming here. I cannot doing this on my own.”

  “Yes. All right, but what is it, Isabell?” Jerry sank to the bottom step of the stairs.

  “You come. Good. Ten minutes, Jerry.” She hung up.

  “Shit.” Jerry scrubbed at his hair and glanced back into the kitchen. Rachel stood fuming in the doorway. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  “I didn’t say I would—she assumed. You know how she is. Look, better to get it over with, eh? Won’t be long.” Rachel glowered as he side-stepped over to the door. “I’ll do the night shift,” he blurted. She didn’t look impressed, but Jerry had slammed the door shut behind himself before she’d had a chance to respond.

  SIX

  “IN, COME IN.” Isabell grabbed Jerry’s upper arm and yanked him into the hallway. “What is it, Isabell? What’s the matter?” He peeled her grasp from his sleeve and Isabell snatched her hand away before tossing it over her head and spinning around to flounce off, long black hair flying out behind her. “Is big problem, Jerry. I can no go on this way.”

  Jerry slunk to the lounge doorway and peered in, mumbling swear words under his breath. Beyond the frame Isabell navigated the enormous sofa: a taupe island in an ocean of deep pile ivory carpet. She moaned. “So many things. I am a woman alone.” She shook her hair out with manicured fingers and patted at the curls. “Is too much to expect.” Rounding the back of the sofa again, she lifted her eyes to Jerry and batted copious false eyelashes at him. Jerry gawked. “Erm, what exactly is it that I’m doing here?” Isabell snatched a wodge of paper from the console table and shook it at him.