The next morning he woke with a headache and a metallic taste in his mouth. He struggled out of bed, a bout of coughs wracking his chest. God, he felt awful. He counted back the number of drinks he’d got through in the pub. Not enough to warrant a hangover like this. He’d have to have a word with Jan about how often she cleaned the pipes in her pub.
In the bathroom he stared in the mirror. His skin looked grey and a latticework of tiny veins marred the whites of his eyes.
“‘Morning,” he said dully, shuffling into the kitchen in a bath-robe and slippers.
“Daniel, are you all right?” Marjorie said, lines of concern across her forehead.
“Not so good, actually. I’m glad it’s Saturday. I don’t think I could have faced working today. Have you got any aspirin?”
“Yes,” she said, immediately opening a cupboard and reaching up to the top shelf. He watched the flesh wobbling under her thick upper arms with disgust.
“Here we are. Now you go and sit on the sofa. Can you manage some tea and toast? I’ll bring everything through.”
She bustled in with a blanket shortly after, tucking it around him before carrying through a tray piled with toast, a pot of tea, a glass of milk, and two aspirin in a little pot.
“Thanks, could you pass me the remote?”
She appeared again a couple of hours later, hovering by the sofa and aggravating him with her presence. “I’m going to the cemetery today. I always take flowers for my babies on a Saturday. Do you feel up to coming? We could take some for your mother, too.”
Her and those bloody babies, he thought, dragging his eyes from the TV screen. Normally a lie would appear instantly on his lips, but his mind seemed to be working sluggishly. “Erm, no. No, thanks.”
“No to coming with me?”
“Yes, I still feel terrible.”
“How about I take some flowers for your mother? You’ll need to tell me exactly where her grave is.”
He raised his fingers to his temples and shut his eyes. “No, don’t worry. I’d feel guilty if you took flowers for me. It’s something I’d prefer to do myself.”
“Okay, then. Would you like more tea? Or an Ovaltine, perhaps?”
He looked at the huge pot, still half full. “Yes, an Ovaltine sounds good. And a couple more aspirin, please.”
Once she’d gone he sat sipping his drink, swallowing down the aspirin with the last gulp. Then he kicked off the blanket, walked over to the front window, lifted the net curtain, and peered down the street. No sign of her. His temples were thudding and he realised his heart was racing uncomfortably fast as he turned to the top drawer of the dresser and took the file out.
Everything was there. Details of several savings accounts, bank cards, cheque books, even the deeds to the house. He flicked through to the back of the file, grunting incredulously when he found the sheet of paper with all the passwords for her savings accounts neatly written out. Stupid, stupid bitch. He thought forward to his meal with Jan the following evening. If everything went smoothly, he’d start draining Marjorie’s accounts dry the next day. Then he could invite Jan on a luxury cruise and be out of this horrible house within a week.
He turned to the envelope at the front and counted the cash inside. Almost four hundred quid. Taking the phone and a copy of the yellow pages back to the sofa, he found the number for the bookie’s he’d become a regular in. “Hi, George, it’s Dan Norris here. Can I place a few phone bets?”
The keys clicked in the front door after lunch and she walked into the front room, a rosy flush on her chubby cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
“Rotten,” he said, shifting on the sofa. “This headache seems to be getting worse.”
“Poor baby,” she said, shrugging off her coat and pressing her fingertips to his brow. “Perhaps I should take your temperature. You could be coming down with the flu. It’s that time of year.”
“You might be right. My joints are starting to ache, too.”
She brought the thermometer through from the kitchen, perched on the edge of the sofa, and popped it in his mouth. As they waited he was aware of her large buttocks pressing against his legs. After three minutes she took it out and tilted it towards the window. “It’s a bit up.”
“Maybe I just need some fresh air,” he said, wanting to get away from her cloying company. But when he tried to stand, the blood surged in his head and red clouds filled the room.
When he came to he was stretched back out on the sofa, the blanket now tucked up to his chin. She was sitting on the arm, looking down at him, her fat face filling his vision.
“You fainted, you poor dear. It’s lucky you hadn’t got to your feet.”
Feeling weak as a child, he shut his eyes again. “My head’s pounding. I need more aspirin.”
She instantly stood. “Of course. I think you’re dehydrated, I’ll get you a drink, too.”
When she returned a minute later he saw she was carrying a steaming mug and a small bottle. “I’ve made you some more Ovaltine. I’m afraid you’ve had all the aspirin. But I’ve got some Calpol.”
“Calpol? Isn’t that for kids?”
“Yes. It was for…” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “We’ll give you an extra big dose.”
Too exhausted to protest, he watched as she poured out a tablespoon of the red liquid. Once he’d swallowed it, she placed the mug of Ovaltine in his hands. “Now drink up. We can’t have you like this, can we?”
He spent the rest of the evening lying on the sofa, listlessly watching the telly as his pulse rose and fell again and again. At eleven o’clock she came over and stood in front of the sofa. “I think it’s beddy-bed time. Shall I help you up?”
Irritated by her patronising choice of words, he waved her away. “I’m fine here. I’ll head up later.”
“Head still bad?”
He nodded once. “If there’s no improvement by tomorrow I think we’d better call for a doctor.”
She found him there the next morning. He was lying on his back, a shallow pant coming from his mouth.
“Oh dear, still feeling poorly?”
His eyelids fluttered open and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I’m more than poorly. I need a doctor,” he croaked, gesturing weakly to the phone which lay just out of his reach. “Can you pass it to me? I can hardly move. And bring me the copy of the yellow pages, too,” he added, thinking he needed to call Jan to cancel their dinner date.
“Let me get you a drink, your throat sounds awfully dry.”
“Okay. Yes, a drink would be good.”
She returned a minute later with a mug in her hands. Kneeling in front of the sofa, she reached an arm round his neck and lifted his head off the cushions.
“What’s this? More bloody Ovaltine? I just want water.”
“Now, now,” she clucked. “I’ve made it with milk, just how you like it. Take a sip, it’s not too hot.”
With a reluctant sigh, he did as he was told. Once it was finished she laid his head back down.
“Now can you please call me a doctor? I’m seriously ill here.”
She picked up the phone and placed it further out of his reach. “We don’t need a doctor. I’m here to take care of you.”
A surge of self-pitying anger made the dull thump in his head more pronounced. “Listen, I need more than cups of bloody Ovaltine. I need medical help. Now call me a bloody doctor.”