Retribution - A Dish served Cold

Chapter Six

The empty metal paint spray can hit the inside of the dustbin. John stood back from the glowing white cycle frame. "Virgin white and good as new. Tomorrow I'll reassemble my trusty steed."

He picked up his cigarettes, lit one and inhaled the pungent smoke. "Okay, Jackie, a bit dramatic, but I can do the necessary easier on a bike than in my car. No one ever notices a cyclist. And before you ask, I'm not having sex with Angela. She's not interested in me. But she's attractive and a bit of a flirt. I'd have a chance if I were twenty years younger." Taking a bottle of turpentine from its shelf, he soaked a rag and cleaned his hands.

On leaving the well-lit workshop, he noted the sun was beginning to drop below the horizon. He shielded his eyes and checked the time.

After washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he glanced out of the window at the house opposite. Recently painted, with an immaculate garden. At least he had a better view. They had to look at paint flaking off windows and a garden full of tall weeds. Since his wife passed, he had given a hundred percent to the job and used it as an excuse. His life had changed again, and it was time to take control, but where should he start. He muttered as he washed the dishes in the sink. What I need is a to-do list. With the dishes washed and dried, he placed them in a cupboard, but a voice in his head told him it was the wrong cupboard.

As he looked at the disorder surrounding him, his enthusiasm melted away. Irritated, he seated himself at the table, lit a cigarette and gave the problem some thought. He rummaged amongst some old local papers looking at the small ads, but he asked himself. How do I know if they are any good? I need someone who does, and the woman who runs the launderette came to mind, and tomorrow is laundry day.

In a better frame of mind, he remained at the kitchen table, sipped a beer, smoked, and watched a travelogue.

***

He filled his laundry bag the following day and cycled to the High Street laundromat.

Babs Vincent, a slim woman in her early fifties with her dark hair pulled back behind her ears, had worked in the laundromat for years. She loved her job and was now the supervisor. She stopped folding sheets with her assistant June when John entered. "The usual, wash, dry and shirts ironed."

John nodded as he handed the bag over. "Babs. I need a cleaner. You wouldn't happen to know someone who needs a job?"

"This might be your lucky day." She picked up the shop phone and dialled a number. "What's the pay?"

His eyes looked up towards the heavens. "What's the going rate?"

Babs laughed. "Five pounds a day, depending."

John shrugged, "Depending on what?"

"What do you want her to do."

"Clean," said John, "What else?"

"Did you hear that, Gillian? Right, don't hang up. I need to talk to the gentleman."

"When would you like her to start?

"Tomorrow would be good."

"My daughter needs a job. She's a hard worker, used to clean bedrooms in the Grand Hotel along the seafront until it closed. Give me your address, and we'll come round your place and have a chat."

"You have my address. What time tonight?"

She placed her hands on her hips. "I finish here at six. How about seven."