haven’t we, Nigel?’
Nigel nodded solemnly in agreement.
My stomach turned over and the room seemed to close in on me. Had Hush stitched himself to death? Had his overworked machine blown up? Or worse, had something happened to my mother? I momentarily went deaf, the only sound the sudden rush of blood pounding in my ears, a tidal wave drowning out what Sid was telling me.
‘… Shot in the back, right outside the front door,’ he was telling me as he gave a glass tankard a good rub with a dishcloth.
‘Who?’ I asked, now seriously confused. Surely there hadn’t been a shootout in the Green Hammerton? It was hardly the Wild West after all. ‘Hush?’
‘No, you daft cow,’ Sid snapped, looking at me as if I was developing early-onset dementia. ‘John Lennon.’
We did the Vernons Girls’ version of ‘We Love The Beatles’ that night as a tribute. Dennis, standing in his usual position at the end of the bar as acting MC, said it was very fitting.
The thought of spending a Christmas in that flat without any electricity was untenable and even though the majority of the bill had nothing to do with either Hush or me we capitulated and went into Huddersfield grudgingly to pay it.
Hush was livid at our having to fork out such a substantial amount of money on a bill that was not of our making and vowed revenge on Phil, even though it really wasn’t his fault.
‘Think of something, Savage,’ he said, in his best Machiavellian tones. ‘You’ve got an evil mind.’
I resented the slight on my good name but even so theretribution Hush was seeking came to me in an old-fashioned chemist one afternoon. In among the jars of dried liquorice root and cinnamon quills I spied a jar of what looked like dried leaves and marked ‘senna pods’. Now, I’d learned enough from my mother and aunties over the years, a trio unequalled in their knowledge of bowel movements, or rather the lack of any, to know that senna pods were a powerful laxative.
Buying a large bag of these, I mixed them in a jar of boiling water and left them to steep undisturbed in the back of the cupboard for a week. During this period we waited for the electricity to be turned back on. Christmas was four days away and despite endless phone calls from Phil there was still no sign of any juice. In the end I rang the Yorkshire Electricity Board pretending to be a social worker to ask them if they were aware that there was a seriously ill pensioner and her special needs son who, despite having paid their bill, were living in a state of near hypothermia without electricity in a snow-covered Slaithwaite over Christmas.
The electricity was turned on that afternoon and to celebrate Hush made a magnificent spaghetti bolognaise, with some of the lethal potion hiding under the sink stirred into Phil’s portion. Nothing happened at first, much to our disappointment. The following morning the potion took effect, resulting in poor Phil spending the best part of the day sat on the throne and emerging hours later exhausted by the strain of it all.
‘Do you think you’ve overdone the dosage?’ Hush asked anxiously as we listened to Phil’s moans outside the bathroom door. ‘You might’ve killed him.’
‘What d’ya mean “I”?’ I said, turning gangster. ‘You’re as much involved in this as I am. It was you wanted to get your own back in the first place.’
‘Yes, but it was your idea to use the senna pods. What if you’ve poisoned him?’
We listened fearfully at the door for any sounds of a death rattle but all we could hear were a succession of low grunts and wails, until eventually he surfaced from the bathroom three stone lighter and, to coin a crude but apt phrase, the colour of boiled shite.
‘Revenge is sweet,’ Hush muttered darkly, watching Phil stagger bow-legged into the kitchen. ‘But if I ever cross you, remind me never to eat anything you cook.’
Phil went to stay with his parents on Christmas Day, leaving me, Hush and Henry
Nigel nodded solemnly in agreement.
My stomach turned over and the room seemed to close in on me. Had Hush stitched himself to death? Had his overworked machine blown up? Or worse, had something happened to my mother? I momentarily went deaf, the only sound the sudden rush of blood pounding in my ears, a tidal wave drowning out what Sid was telling me.
‘… Shot in the back, right outside the front door,’ he was telling me as he gave a glass tankard a good rub with a dishcloth.
‘Who?’ I asked, now seriously confused. Surely there hadn’t been a shootout in the Green Hammerton? It was hardly the Wild West after all. ‘Hush?’
‘No, you daft cow,’ Sid snapped, looking at me as if I was developing early-onset dementia. ‘John Lennon.’
We did the Vernons Girls’ version of ‘We Love The Beatles’ that night as a tribute. Dennis, standing in his usual position at the end of the bar as acting MC, said it was very fitting.
The thought of spending a Christmas in that flat without any electricity was untenable and even though the majority of the bill had nothing to do with either Hush or me we capitulated and went into Huddersfield grudgingly to pay it.
Hush was livid at our having to fork out such a substantial amount of money on a bill that was not of our making and vowed revenge on Phil, even though it really wasn’t his fault.
‘Think of something, Savage,’ he said, in his best Machiavellian tones. ‘You’ve got an evil mind.’
I resented the slight on my good name but even so theretribution Hush was seeking came to me in an old-fashioned chemist one afternoon. In among the jars of dried liquorice root and cinnamon quills I spied a jar of what looked like dried leaves and marked ‘senna pods’. Now, I’d learned enough from my mother and aunties over the years, a trio unequalled in their knowledge of bowel movements, or rather the lack of any, to know that senna pods were a powerful laxative.
Buying a large bag of these, I mixed them in a jar of boiling water and left them to steep undisturbed in the back of the cupboard for a week. During this period we waited for the electricity to be turned back on. Christmas was four days away and despite endless phone calls from Phil there was still no sign of any juice. In the end I rang the Yorkshire Electricity Board pretending to be a social worker to ask them if they were aware that there was a seriously ill pensioner and her special needs son who, despite having paid their bill, were living in a state of near hypothermia without electricity in a snow-covered Slaithwaite over Christmas.
The electricity was turned on that afternoon and to celebrate Hush made a magnificent spaghetti bolognaise, with some of the lethal potion hiding under the sink stirred into Phil’s portion. Nothing happened at first, much to our disappointment. The following morning the potion took effect, resulting in poor Phil spending the best part of the day sat on the throne and emerging hours later exhausted by the strain of it all.
‘Do you think you’ve overdone the dosage?’ Hush asked anxiously as we listened to Phil’s moans outside the bathroom door. ‘You might’ve killed him.’
‘What d’ya mean “I”?’ I said, turning gangster. ‘You’re as much involved in this as I am. It was you wanted to get your own back in the first place.’
‘Yes, but it was your idea to use the senna pods. What if you’ve poisoned him?’
We listened fearfully at the door for any sounds of a death rattle but all we could hear were a succession of low grunts and wails, until eventually he surfaced from the bathroom three stone lighter and, to coin a crude but apt phrase, the colour of boiled shite.
‘Revenge is sweet,’ Hush muttered darkly, watching Phil stagger bow-legged into the kitchen. ‘But if I ever cross you, remind me never to eat anything you cook.’
Phil went to stay with his parents on Christmas Day, leaving me, Hush and Henry
Similar Books
