It Could Be You Part 4 Page 2

  ‘Right. I’m going to walk Elvis round the block for last wees, and then I’m off to bed,’ said Regan. ‘An actual bed.’ She was excited at the thought of it.

  ‘I can take him out, if you like?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She didn’t want to turn out again if she didn’t have to.

  ‘Sure,’ said Charlie, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll shut him in the hallway.’

  Regan realised Elvis didn’t have a dog bed, but it was too late to do anything about it now. He was used to sleeping in worse places than Charlie’s hallway. ‘Okay. Night then.’ She wasn’t sure what to do. If she was leaving the house, she would have kissed his cheek, but she was only going upstairs. She jigged on the spot awkwardly for a moment.

  ‘You okay?’ Charlie tilted his head questioningly.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m going to bed.’ She pointed at the door. Charlie raised an eyebrow as if she were suggesting something. ‘On my own. Alone. Just me in the bed. Which is fine. It wasn’t an offer. I should go now,’ she gabbled, whilst her cheeks heated up. She turned to leave, but Elvis was against the door and blocking her exit. After a great deal of effort and an agonising delay, she managed to push the dog over enough that she could open the door a few inches to squeeze out. How embarrassing.

  She was in bed when she heard Charlie and Elvis come back. She waited to see if she’d need to go down and settle Elvis.

  ‘Now, listen, Elvis,’ said Charlie, his voice low and gentle. ‘This is your space. Sleep wherever you like. Doormat might be good. Regan has gone to bed and I’m going up too. Night, night, mate.’

  ‘Night, Reg,’ he called from the landing.

  ‘Night, Debbie,’ she called back, and she heard him chortle.

  She closed her eyes and tried to stop grinning. This wasn’t perfect, but she was somewhere very comfortable with Charlie in the next bedroom. She closed her eyes. Within moments they pinged open again, because something was scratching at her bedroom door. If it was Charlie then her day was made. She hopped out of bed and opened it a fraction but the large hairy face that poked through dismissed her little fantasy.

  ‘No, Elvis,’ she whispered. ‘Downstairs.’ She held her palm in front of his eyes so he’d know she meant it. He licked it. ‘No.’ She tried to make him reverse onto the landing. There was a small scuffle when Elvis pushed back. A door clicked open.

  ‘Are you sneaking him in?’ asked Charlie, his voice reproachful.

  ‘No. I’m trying to sneak him back downstairs without the landlord seeing him.’

  Charlie smiled. ‘I’ll take him down. Come on, Elvis. No creeping into girls’ bedrooms uninvited.’ He strode onto the landing wearing a Superman T-shirt and black boxer briefs, making it almost impossible for Regan not to stare. Her teenage self was about to spontaneously combust into a giggling mess.

  She muttered a ‘Thanks’ and hurried back to bed, stifling her nervous laughter with her pillow.

  She was beginning to fall asleep when the scratching at the door was repeated, this time accompanied by a whimper. She and Charlie opened their doors at the same time. She concentrated hard to maintain eye contact. ‘What do we do?’ she asked.

  Charlie ruffled his hair, which lifted his T-shirt enough for her to get a glimpse of his slim midriff. ‘When I took him downstairs before, he just sat there looking at me. I don’t think he knows where to sleep,’ said Charlie, lowering his arm.

  ‘He’s not got a bed.’

  ‘Hang on. We can make him one.’ Charlie turned and gave Regan a nice view of his bum in the tight black briefs, and she sighed involuntarily. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Don’t, you’ll set me off.’ He yawned, and she faked one of her own. It was far better he thought she was yawning than sighing at the glorious sight of his tight little bum in stretchy underwear.

  Charlie reappeared with a body warmer, complete with fur-trimmed hood. ‘He can try sleeping on this.’

  Regan was grinning. ‘Is that yours?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to give it to charity.’

  ‘What was it – your East 17 phase?’ she asked, with a splutter.

  He headed downstairs and Regan and Elvis followed. ‘No. My mum brought it back from Canada.’

  Regan took the furry body warmer off him, her face beaming with glee, and she laid it out on the doormat. ‘Elvis,’ she patted the body warmer, ‘bedtime.’ Elvis came and gave it a sniff, pawed it a bit and then curled up on it to repeated good boys from both Regan and Charlie. Once he seemed settled, they padded back upstairs and into their respective bedrooms.

  When Elvis woke them up again shortly afterwards, Regan opened the door to him to see that this time he had brought the body warmer with him. Charlie peered around his door. ‘I think he’d like to return the body warmer. He says he looks ridiculous in it,’ said Regan, with a grin.

  ‘I give in,’ said Charlie, throwing up his hands. ‘He can sleep with you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Regan, but Charlie had already disappeared.

  Regan had a spring in her step when she left for work the next morning. She had slept incredibly well despite having to share the bed with Elvis, who liked to stretch out but at the same time be right up against you. She guessed this was what he’d been used to – he and Kevin sleeping close to keep each other warm. She stopped at the café to unload her boxes and Penny popped out to take them from her.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Penny, taking the first box. ‘You look cheerful.’

  ‘I am,’ said Regan, following her in with another one. ‘I slept well, had a hot shower and a chat over breakfast with my favourite fireman.’

  Penny spun around so fast she nearly fell over. ‘A hot shower with a fireman?’

  ‘No. Hot shower on my own, worse luck. Then breakfast with the fireman.’

  Penny pulled a commiserative face. ‘Have you got time for coffee when you’ve parked the car?’

  ‘Er, yeah, go on. Quick one,’ said Regan. They weren’t expecting Bernice back for a few days, but she didn’t want to take the mick.

  When she returned from the car with Elvis, Penny was bringing the drinks to a table outside. The June day was starting to warm up around them and Elvis looked expectantly at Penny. She pointed to a water bowl. ‘It’s new and just for dogs,’ said Penny. Elvis huffed his disapproval and slunk under the table.

  ‘Thanks. How are you?’ asked Regan, taking the coffee.

  ‘Good.’ She had her shoulders hunched. ‘I met Cleo for a drink last night. Sort of a last-minute thing.’

  ‘Oh, good. Did you have a nice time?’

  Penny’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Yeah, I had a great time. She’s lovely … I’m really sorry we didn’t invite you.’

  Regan shrugged. ‘It’s fine. It’s kind of nice that you both get on.’ Often good friends fitted in to separate groups and didn’t mix, so it was lovely that they all got along.

  ‘We thought the three of us could have a girls’ night in at Cleo’s once she’s got her flat back,’ said Penny. ‘You know … takeaway, wine and film.’

  Regan scanned Penny’s face; she seemed different somehow. She was certainly very excited about the prospect of a night in. ‘Sure.’ Regan gave a shrug.

  ‘Cleo’s incredibly glamorous, isn’t she?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Regan, knowing that she was; but she’d known Cleo long enough to know that wasn’t the real her. Underneath she would always be the anxious nail-biter who preferred woolly jumpers to party dresses.

  ‘It must be amazing to think of your works of art hanging on the walls of the rich and famous. It’s just paint and canvas, but because it’s been made by Cleo Marchant people pay thousands to have one of their own. Kids are going to be queuing up to join her mentoring programme,’ said Penny, checking her watch.

  Regan was nodding without really listening, but now she tuned in fully. ‘What mentoring programme is this, then?’ She dismissed a brief prickle of hurt at not being the first person Cleo had discussed it with.

  ‘Oh, it’s just an idea she has.’ Penny seemed to realise her mistake. ‘She said she was going to talk to you about it once it’s finalised. She knows you’ve been dealing with a lot recently.’

  It was true, but it hadn’t stopped Cleo sharing her ideas in the past. Perhaps them all being friends wasn’t going to work out quite as well as she’d thought. Three’s a crowd, thought Regan.

  On the morning of Kevin’s funeral, Regan was woken by a tap on the bedroom door. Elvis sat up and almost fell off the bed. Charlie stuck his head around the door. ‘I’m off to work and I wanted to say I hope it all goes okay.’ He carried in a mug of coffee. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the coffee. ‘And no, I don’t want you playing hooky from work for me.’

  ‘And you’re sure about taking Elvis?’ His tone of voice said he had reservations. Elvis was lying on his back waiting for someone to scratch his tummy, and Charlie obliged.

  ‘Yes, I am. I know you all think it’s crazy, but Bernice has spoken to the vicar and they’ve all said he can come. And I know it’s a bit mad …’

  ‘Barking,’ said Charlie, with a grin, and she ignored him.

  ‘But to Kevin, Elvis was family, so I think he should be there.’

  ‘And if he cocks his leg on anything?’

  ‘Then he will be removed by a verger and be condemned to the fiery pits of hell.’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll be thinking about you,’ he said, and he reversed out of the door. She knew what he meant, but she wanted to say “I’ll be thinking about you too. Because that’s what I do most of the time. And it’s really bloody annoying when you pop up in my head like whack-a-mole.”’

  ‘Regan?’ Charlie was waving at her. ‘Are you sure
you’re okay?’

  She pulled herself back to the moment. ‘Sorry, I zoned out there. Go on – you need to leave and I need to make copious amounts of jam.’

  Charlie faltered. ‘Right. Well, don’t burn the place down.’

  ‘I’ll try not to … but if I do, it’s okay because I know a fireman.’ She fluttered her eyelashes in a very non-Regan way, making Charlie shake his head and leave.

  Regan wasn’t working today. The market was still running, but the funeral was in the middle of the day and it hadn’t seemed worth it to set up just for a couple of hours. But she still needed to keep herself busy until it was time to leave.

  Jag had handed over a large tray of strawberries before she’d left the day before, but strawberries were the last thing she needed. She had a big stock of strawberry and black pepper jam and of balsamic strawberry jam, and she wasn’t sure what else to put with them to make the jam unusual and ‘Reganify’ it. She’d done some googling but nothing had popped up that had seemed to tick the right boxes.

  She sipped her coffee and considered her dilemma. She was still pondering when she entered the kitchen, Elvis at her heels.

  ‘Nuh-uh. You know the score.’ She shooed him out and he skulked away with his head held low, bestowing maximum guilt.

  She got everything out ready to make jam, but still had no idea what to put with the strawberries. She decided to hunt through Charlie’s cupboards in the hope of finding something to trigger some inspiration. Tinned tomatoes – yuck. Marmite – double yuck. Regan measured out the sugar and hulled the strawberries, and while they began heating up she had another hunt through the cupboards. There at the back was the answer to the question she had been trying to figure out.

  With a twinkle in her heart, she set about creating another unique jam for Sticky Situations.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A few hours later, Regan had swapped an apron for her black interview suit and was waiting outside the crematorium for Elvis to have a final wee. Regan had brushed out so much hair from Elvis’s coat she was surprised he wasn’t bald. He’d fluffed up quite nicely. Elvis found a watering can and peed against that, the empty metal vessel making a spectacular noise and alerting gathering mourners to their presence. She gave the gawpers a curt smile and scuttled inside.

  Regan slipped into a seat near the back in case she needed to make a quick exit. Elvis had a good sniff around and then flopped down at her feet. The crematorium was echoey and, despite the sunshine outside, there was a chill in the stale air. Regan wasn’t very comfortable in churches and this seemed somehow worse. It was the first funeral she’d been to, having been too young to attend her gran’s, and luckily all her other close relatives were still alive.

  Bernice arrived and smiled at Regan on her way down the aisle. She paused. ‘You should be at the front with me and the family.’

  ‘It’s okay. He might kick off,’ said Regan, with a nod at Elvis.

  ‘That’s fine – he’s family too.’ Bernice ushered her out of the pew and down to the front, where they sat in silence. At last some music started. It was ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay, one of the songs Regan had suggested. She didn’t know if it was a favourite of Kevin’s, but he’d whistled along to it the night they’d sat under the pier and it was a time he had been happy, so in Regan’s books that meant it qualified. It was somehow appropriate too. She took a deep breath and Bernice gripped her hand.

  Regan turned to see Kevin’s coffin being carried in. She choked back the tears. Elvis jumped up onto his back legs and she feared she’d have to take him out, but he steadied himself against her like he was trying to get a better view or give her a cuddle – she wasn’t sure which. She got the feeling he knew there was something wrong. When the coffin was set down, Elvis slumped back to the floor.

  Regan looked around; there were only a handful of people there. Malcolm had come and he was sitting at the back. Hillary was also there, and another older man she recognised from the homeless community. Then there were a couple of smartly dressed men who she guessed might have been naval friends, and that was it. So many people would have seen him and walked past him every day, and yet when it came to it, so few people actually knew him.

  The civil celebrant taking the service was excellent. Talking about Dale’s time in the Navy and his time on the streets, he painted the picture of the kind and caring soul she had known. The service went by in a flash, and soon they were watching the coffin disappear behind a curtain to the Titanic theme tune – not one of Regan’s suggestions. Elvis began whimpering and Regan bent down to comfort him, rubbing tears from her own eyes at the same time. Elvis pulled her forward as if he wanted to follow the coffin. ‘No, mate. It’s time to say goodbye,’ she whispered in his ear, and with a deep groan he lay heavily on the floor. Perhaps animals understood more than humans gave them credit for.

  They watched the curtains slowly close. There was something horribly final about the drawn curtains. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it didn’t seem enough to end a life by closing a bit of material. Surely people deserved to go out with something more impressive, like fireworks, or one of those video montages they did when people left reality shows? Let’s have a look at your time here …

  ‘You okay?’ asked Bernice, dabbing at her mascara with a tissue.

  Regan blinked. She’d shed a few tears, but she was better than she’d expected – no full-on blubbering, which was a result. ‘Yes. How about you?’

  ‘I think Mum and Dad would have approved.’

  Regan knew what was required here. ‘I’m sure they would say that you’d done him proud.’

  Bernice smiled. ‘Pub?’

  Regan liked this side of Bernice; it was a shame it had taken something so traumatic for it to be revealed. ‘Definitely.’

  The pub was dog friendly and Regan was well prepared, having brought along a large chew bone to keep Elvis occupied. A few people stayed for one drink before making their excuses and leaving. Bernice’s aunt and uncle led the conversation, reminiscing about Dale as a child – they frowned every time Regan referred to him as Kevin, but she couldn’t help it. When they left it was just Regan, Bernice and a snoozing Elvis.

  ‘The other day you said you knew who had killed my brother.’ Bernice fixed her with a stern eye.

  Regan sipped her drink. ‘I’ve got a theory.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That thieving little sod in the hoodie.’ Regan knew they had very differing feelings about the youth, but Bernice had asked.

  Bernice pursed her lips. ‘I take it you’ve told the police?’

  ‘Not exactly. You see … I’m lacking evidence.’

  ‘Lacking? What evidence do you actually have?’

  Regan pouted. ‘None. But I’ve got a hunch.’

  ‘You can’t accuse someone of something this serious because of a hunch.’ The Bernice of old had returned in an instant.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re still sticking up for him. He’s not Kevin. He’s nothing like him. Kevin was kind and gentle, and that kid is a thug who has no respect for anyone or anything.’ Regan stood up to leave.

  This time Bernice was calmer. ‘Sit down. Please.’ Regan paused, but Elvis hadn’t moved and she still had some beer in her glass, so she did as Bernice asked. ‘I hoped you had something more concrete to go on.’ Bernice looked disappointed and suddenly tired, sinking back into her seat.

  ‘Look,’ said Regan, leaning forward, ‘I can’t be completely certain because of the rain that night, but I don’t think the car that hit him was coloured.’ Regan sat back.

  Bernice looked puzzled. ‘But all cars are a colour. It’s a big selling point. That’s how I pick mine.’

  ‘What I mean is it wasn’t red or yellow. It must have been something that blended in. Like grey.’

  ‘Grey?’ Bernice didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Or possibly black … maybe silver.’

  ‘That narrows it down then,’ said Bernice sarcastically, taking a long swig of her wine.

  ‘Don’t dismiss it. I know it was a small car, so if we could get local businesses to have a look at their CCTV footage we might be able to spot something.’