Blues, Twos and Baby Shoes by Gina Kirkham

Author:Gina Kirkham [Kirkham, Gina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

Cyril Hislop lived in an area that had once been well sought after in its day. Now it was run down and bleak. Many of the properties were derelict, their windows boarded up with for sale signs decorating the front gardens, broken, bent and tilted like decaying teeth. There was a general air of sadness, of being forgotten. Families, once their offspring had flown the nest, were left with large Victorian terraces that held too many rooms to keep warm in the winter. A fragmented society had slowly done away with extended families living together, supporting each other.

The rot was on the inside as much as the outside.

Standing in front of 8 Edinburgh Road, I lifted my finger to touch the tarnished lionhead knocker, the black paint alternatively peeled in parts or had taken on a matt grey bloom with small spores of powdery orange mould nestled in the cracks. I used my thumb and forefinger to knock, the less fingers used the better. I wiped my hand on my trousers waiting for the footsteps to get closer. The door opened barely an inch as one eye peered out.

“Mr Hislop?”

“Who’s asking?”

Jeez, me you numpty; the one that’s dressed as a police officer!

“I’m Constable Mavis Upton from Westbury Police Station…” I held my warrant card up to the crack in the door, “… I wondered if I could come in and have a chat to you about your recent report?”

He studied me for a moment, tutted and opened the door a little wider. “You’re a bit on the short side to be one, aren’t you?”

“Oh they let all sorts join now Mr Hislop, I mean look at me, short AND a woman!”

I gave him a few seconds for that to sink in, whilst I manoeuvred myself around him and into the hallway. A rumpled red and gold runner covering the original floor tiles elongated towards a door at the far end. 1930’s brown woodwork contributed to the dismal feel of the interior, a small scratched console table held a black & white photograph of a pretty young woman in a floral dress, a garish tassel lamp sat next to it, the weak light desperately trying to penetrate the darker corners. The wall held three brass ducks in flight. Duck number one was on course, duck number two was lopsided and sniffing the arse of duck number three above him and in turn duck number three looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying the unnatural attention of duck number two. I stifled a giggle. Cyril pushed ahead of me, his bulk filling the narrow hallway as he shuffled through the door into the kitchen. I followed him resisting the urge to straighten duck number two and destroy the pleasure of duck number three in the process.

“Might as well take a seat, now you’re in..” he grunted. “…d’you want a drink or something?” The battered old kettle in his hand clattered as the spout hit the tap.

Looking at the greasy dishes piled on

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