Waiting for Wednesday

really identifiable and Fearby didn’t want to
identify it: there was sweat, dampness. He suddenly thought of the sour smell you get
behind garbage vans in summer.
    Fearby had lived alone for years and he knew
about life with surfaces that never got properly wiped, dishes that piled up, food that
was left out, clothes on the floor, but this was something different. In the dark, hot
living room, he had to step around dirty plates and glasses. He saw opened cans half
filled with things he couldn’t recognize, white and green with mould. Almost
everything, plates, glasses, tins, had stubs of cigarettes on or in it. Fearby wondered
whether there was someone he could call. Did someone somewhere have a legal
responsibility to deal with this?
    The television was on and Conley sat down
opposite it. He wasn’t exactly watching the screen. It looked more like he was
just sitting in front of it.
    ‘How did you get this place?’
said Fearby.
    ‘The council,’ said Conley.
    ‘Does anyone come round to help you? I
know it must be difficult. You’ve been inside so long. It’s hard to
adjust.’ Conley just looked blank, so Fearby tried again. ‘Does anyone come
to check up? Maybe do some cleaning?’
    ‘A woman comes sometimes. To check on
me.’
    ‘Is she helpful?’
    ‘She’s all right.’
    ‘What about your compensation?
How’s it going?’
    ‘I don’t know. I saw
Diana.’
    ‘Your lawyer,’ said Fearby. He
had to speak almost in a shout to be heard above the television. ‘What did she
say?’
    ‘She said it’d take time. A long
time.’
    ‘I’ve heard that. You’ll
have to be patient.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you get out much?’
    ‘I walk a bit. There’s a
park.’
    ‘That’s nice.’
    ‘There’s ducks. I take bread.
And seeds.’
    ‘That’s nice, George. Is there
anyone you’d like me to call for you? If you give me a number, I could call the
people at the council. They could come and help you clear up.’
    ‘There’s just a woman. She comes
sometimes.’
    Fearby had been sitting right on the edge of
a sofa that looked as if it had been brought in from outside. His back was starting to
ache. He stood up. ‘I’ve got to head off,’ he said.
    ‘I was having tea.’
    Fearby looked at an open carton of milk on
the table. The milk inside was yellow. ‘I had some earlier. But I’ll pop
back soon and we can go out for a drink or a walk. How’s that sound?’
    ‘All right.’
    ‘I’m trying to find out who
killed Hazel Barton. I’ve been busy.’
    Conley didn’t respond.
    ‘I know it’s a terrible memory
for you,’ said Fearby. ‘But when you found her, I know you bent down and
tried to help her. You touched her. That was the evidence that was used against you. But
did you see anything else? Did you see a person? Or a car? George. Did you hear what I
said?’
    Conley looked round but he still
didn’t say anything.
    ‘Right,’ said Fearby. ‘Well,
it’s been good to see you. We’ll do this again.’
    He picked his way carefully out of the
room.
    When Fearby got home, he went online to
find the number of the social services department. He dialled it but the office was
closed for the day. He looked at his watch. He had thought of calling Diana McKerrow
about Conley’s situation, but her office would be closed as well by now. He knew
about these compensation cases. They took years.
    He went to the sink, found a glass, rinsed
it and poured himself some whisky. He took a sip and felt the warmth spreading down
through his chest. He’d needed that. He felt the staleness of the day in his
mouth, on his tongue, and the whisky scoured all that away. He walked through the rooms
with his drink. It wasn’t like Conley’s flat, but it was a distant relation.
Men adrift, living alone. Two men still trapped in their different ways by the Hazel
Barton case. The police had no other suspects. That was what they’d said. Only
George Conley and he knew different.
    Suddenly the dirty glasses and bits of
clothing, the piles of papers and envelopes scared him. People hardly ever came to the
house, but the thought of anyone coming into this room and feeling some part of what he
had felt in George Conley’s flat made him flush with a sort of shame. For the next
hour he picked clothes up, washed glasses and plates, wiped surfaces, vacuumed. At the
end, he felt it was closer to some sort of normality. It needed more. He could see that.
He would buy a picture. He could put flowers in a vase.