Ozzie Rozzie #7

[CAUTION: THIS STORY CONTAINS BRITISH ICONS]

This is a fiction series. It will make more sense if you read: Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six.

Clint stood shivering in the bathroom, trying to force suds from the hard sliver of soap. His shirt was a write-off. As he wiped cold water on his swollen face, he winced, and gave up being in any way thorough. He could hear Oswald returning, the heavy tread of his size thirteen Clarke's causing stairs to creak and groan. Looking at himself in the dirty, dull mirror, he thought, I'll play it by ear, then grimaced as he caught his own unintentional pun. Amazing how funny stuff always happens, he observed, in the worst times. He thought briefly of his bedroom, posters from childhood not yet removed, cars and fighter jets, and the one pornographic magazine which he had carefully stashed away from prying eyes under his mattress. At this familiarity, a lump came to Clint's throat, and he felt like weeping.

Oswald entered the room, brandishing a voluminous grey shirt. "This'll do," he said, and threw it to Clint. "Put it on."

Clint struggled to comply. The buttons were huge, the wrong size for the garment. He lacked the finger strength to push them through the holes. Instead, he opened up the shirt and ducked his head through the top. The shirt fell down to his knees like a maternity dress, and Clint began systematically to tuck the billowing tent into his trousers.

Oswald absently pulled at his wiry hair, assessing the results. Aside from the thick circle of cloth from the shirt, which sat around his middle like a lifebuoy, Clint looked more presentable.

"Right. Right. Right." Oswald seemed nervous suddenly, his anger finally drained away with the efforts to make good. He didn't move, and for a long few seconds, he just stared blankly in the direction of the kitchen. Clint wondered if this was a pre-death ritual Oswald performed on all his victims.

Oswald licked his lips, turned to Clint, and said, "Cup of tea."

Clint thought Oswald had totally lost it for a moment, but he was tuned into his persecutor too keenly, and he knew that wasn't true. He hadn't lost it, he was worried about something.

"Any teabags?" asked Clint.

"Yes. Yes." Oswald seemed genuinely surprised by Clint's practical suggestion, but still didn't move.

"Would you like a hand with the tea, Oswald?" asked Clint slowly, sensing the beginnings of a change in the balance of power, coaxing reason from its hiding place.

"Orlrite then," assented Oswald, and led the way to the kitchen, where a wide-bottomed whistling kettle stood on a gas ring. Moving slowly, trying not to use his damaged left arm, Clint took it over to the sink, and filled it. Oswald lit the ring, and started to assemble cups and saucers on a tray. The porcelain cups were feminine, small, clean, and brightly and delicately decorated in red, quite unlike the chipped mugs in Clint's house, adorned with saucy seaside slogans, stained brown with tannin that nobody ever attempted to remove. While Clint watched, Oswald carefully and precisely laid out a silver sugar bowl, containing cubes, with small tongs, a medium-sized pot, a white tea-cosy with images of cats, three teaspoons, and reaching up above the cooker, a small biscuit tin.

As the kettle began to make a wobbling rising note, Oswald lifted it with a huge hand, and poured an inch of boiling water into the pot, swishing it round for a few seconds. Astonished at this act above all others, Clint observed precise, practised movements. He's warming the pot, thought Clint, just like Gran does.

As if reading his mind, Oswald looked up and said, matter of factly, "I have to do this. She can always tell."

He poured the water away, added three teabags, and filled the pot. Picking up the tray, he nodded to Clint, indicating the direction of the living room down the corridor. "Go on," said Oswald, "and don't mess about." There was nothing in his manner which was threatening anymore. The rituals of cleaning, of making tea, seemed to have calmed him, and the nervousness was more a case of protocol being followed, Clint realised. Fine then, he would follow.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thompson's mind was racing, and he was furious as he pulled up outside the telephone box. Inside was a young woman with thick glasses, who was clearly doing an excellent job of listening. She gazed distractedly out at Thompson as he began to wait. After a minute of pacing around and hoving into view, looking at his watch, and staring at her, she showed no sign of letting up, so Thompson summoned up his most inconsolable face, and tapped lightly on the glass. She turned round, irritated, but noticing his forlorn, beseeching face, said into the mouthpiece, "Hold on, someone's saying something to me," and pushed open the door with her foot.

"I'm so terribly sorry," said Thompson in his tragic-but-smooth voice, "An awful thing has happened - an accident - I am a teacher and I have to call the school - would it be possible - do you mind..." and as he said this he manouvred himself into the box, removing the handset from the woman, who stared at him with concern. "Thank you so much," he said into the mouthpiece, put the telephone down whilst reaching into his pocket for change. He lifted the woman's hand, and putting 10 pence into her hand, said "I'll just be two minutes," closed the door and started to dial.

Come on, answer! thought Thompson, determined to get the situation back under control. His blood pressure was up, he knew it was. It had killed his father. Damn Eastwood and damn Rosbotham. What was it they called him? Ozzie Razor, or something. Like some fucking popstar.

The phone clicked into life.

"Hello, Colin Thompson here. Is Mr Morrison about?"

"One second please."

Thompson drummed his fingers on the glass, remembering to maintain his doleful look as he saw the young woman watching him from outside the box, hand on hip. She looked cynical, but she was giving him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

"Hello, Morrison here," came the cultured tones of the Deputy. "Success?"

"Hi - look, um, I.. " said Thompson in a quiet voice, suddenly feeling like a boy whose dog has eaten his homework. "I've been hanging around here for a while and there's no sign."

"Hmmm, not good. Where can they have got to?" pondered Morrison. "Have you knocked?"

"It's a shared house, I mean, a house divided into flats... is there a note of the flat number there?"

"Ah yes, now let me see..." Thompson could hear Morrison at his desk in the distant school office, moving a pile of books with a thump, and rustling papers. He looked up and made sad eyes at the waiting woman, but she looked away scornfully. She wasn't fooled.

"It would appear that it is Flat A" said Morrison, loud again in the earpiece. "Look here, these are exceptional circumstances, so be a good old chap, go and knock on the door, and apologise if necessary. Perhaps it would be best to let the police know at this point.. ?" Morrison's voice trailed off enquiringly.

"Give me ten minutes. I'll either call back, or come back," said Thompson.

"Right you are," said Morrison, and the line went dead.

[End Part Seven]