Sweetpea: The most unique and gripping thriller of 2017. C.J. Skuse

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СКАЧАТЬ with the world that the nation could chew over with their soggy Shreddies – how a child’s skull makes a noise like a vase smashing when it’s hit with a hammer; how the sound of a glass smashing even now can cause me to break out in a cold sweat; how Blackstone’s hanging body was the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness.

      ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Mercifully, I don’t remember any of it.’

      They were speechless. I ventured a look downwards – Tony’s trouser seam was bursting with the pressure. Surely no material could hold back that penal tide.

      ‘You won Child of Courage and Pride of Britain Awards, didn’t you?’

      ‘Yeah. That was nice.’

      The Pride of Britain one had snapped in half in the back of the taxi after the ceremony. I couldn’t remember what had happened with the Children of Courage one. Last time I’d seen it, it was in a box in Mum and Dad’s garage.

      ‘It must have been such a traumatic time for your family. In fact, your life’s been quite peppered with tragedy ever since, hasn’t it?’ said Carolyn.

      ‘Yes,’ I said, not venturing further information.

      ‘You lost a young friend in a car accident when you were still in recovery from Priory Gardens, didn’t you? Little Joe Leech, when you lived in Bristol?’

      I nodded. ‘Yeah, he got run over. He’d been coming to visit me.’

      ‘And your mother died of breast cancer when you were in your teens? And your father from brain cancer just two years ago?’

      It was a bit of a non sequitur. I guess they were building up the public sympathy a bit more and waiting for the waterworks. Carolyn pushed the box of tissues along the banquette towards me, just in case.

      Good luck with that.

      Tony readjusted his position – he was sitting on at least half of his dick, I surmised. That can’t have been comfortable for three hours on a daily basis. I could almost feel sorry for him, if he hadn’t had reached out to pat my knee – unauthorised body contact #3.

      ‘Yeah, death seems to have a thing for my family,’ I said. ‘Everyone just seems to leave me. I mean, I had a few years of warning with Mum. But with Dad it was weeks. Out of the blue.’

      Tony nodded. ‘That must have been a massive shock for you.’

      ‘Yes, it was a massive cock,’ I said, without even realising what I’d said until they both looked at me in abject terror. ‘Shock, shock, yeah,’ I said, like I’d just stuttered and was trying to claw back the blush blooming in both my cheeks. I attempted some firefighting: ‘I was totally in shock about it for weeks. We had photographers camped in our front garden like I was a celebrity, which didn’t make things easier. Funny sort of celebrity.’

      Tony’s bald patch burnt a greasy red. I could see the cogs going in his head – Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, career suicide, career suicide, dead kids, dead kids!

      Carolyn had to do the rest of the segment alone with the camera focused squarely on her rock-hard expression. ‘But things are going well for you now, aren’t they?’ She was clearly desperate for a whiff of a happy ending amidst all the doom and cock shrapnel in the cheesy air. Less skull-crushing, more yay. ‘You’ve got your lovely boyfriend and a brilliant job in journalism?’

      ‘Yes, that’s right. Everything is… awesome.’

      Journalism? Is that what we’re calling it now? Yeah, everything’s really awesome now, Carolyn: my journalistic career begins and ends with making coffee and typing up skittles scores, my novel has been rejected by every agent and publisher in the country, my boyfriend’s having an affair with a cum bucket called Lana, I think about killing someone every twenty-five minutes, I hate all my friends and I’ve just made a twat of myself on national TV. Yeah, everything’s gravy, baby.

      When I didn’t offer up any more information, she glared at me like I was the Goth girl with the pierced clit who’d announced she was marrying her son. I think she was beginning to wish that hammer had struck my frontal lobe a bit harder.

      ‘And how do you feel about being up for Woman of the Century?’

      I smiled. ‘Oh, yeah, I’m thrilled. It’s an amazing honour. I’m so excited about the ceremony tonight and all the people I’ll meet.’ I saw my face in the monitor. I really needed to work on my smile. It was as wooden as my grandmother’s sideboard.

      Tony had composed himself, though he was pretty red in the face still. ‘Is your boyfriend proud of you?’ Cue lecherous glint. Even though it wasn’t bodily contact, I felt like he’d wiped his bell-end all over my face.

      ‘Yeah, he’s delighted.’

      ‘What’s his name? Give him a shout-out.’

      ‘Craig.’ I looked to the camera. ‘Hi, Craig.’ I imagined him and Lana waving to the TV at the end of our bed, lying in post-coital stickiness, smoking endless joints.

      ‘Aww, that’s lovely,’ said Carolyn. ‘Well, the best of luck for tonight, Rhiannon. We’ll be cheering you on, have no fear.’ It was clear that they’d cut my interview very short. They’d have to stick on a few more sofa adverts in the break.

      ‘Yes, thanks, Rhiannon,’ said Tony, and did his old man wink, and I risked one final glance down at the peen seam. The anaconda had a baby while I wasn’t looking.

      ‘Thanks for having me.’ I smiled confidently.

      Carolyn and Tony turned to the camera. ‘We’ll see you after the break, when we’ll be talking about the rise in the number of nursery-school children downloading Internet porn, Michelinstar chef Scottie Callender will be in the kitchen with his three-cheese quiche and we might find time to have a chat to these young fellas…’

      Four pre-pubic teen boys bounced onto the sofa from behind, scaring the crap out of me and knocking over the bowl of croissants on the coffee table.

      Carolyn giggled like a drain as the lead singer and official fittest one, Joey, apologised and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

      ‘Yes, Boytox, the YouTube-born boy band taking the world by storm at the moment, are here to chat about their sell-out world tour. We’ll see you in three,’ she said to camera, fanning herself theatrically. The saxophone music signalled we were clear and it felt like the whole studio breathed a sweet sigh of relief.

      The youngest Boytox member, who wore glasses, stank of Emporio Armani and would certainly be the first one to announce he was gay, sat next to me. He put his heavily tattooed arm around me. ‘I loved the interview. So cool that you, like, didn’t die and stuff.’

      I could have killed them all, one by one, right there on the fuchsia banquette.

Tuesday, 6 February

      So I didn’t win. Malala beat me into a cocked hat. Oh, and there was a second and third place and I didn’t get either of them. One of the cancer women came second. The foster mum got bronze. Taliban trumps cancer. Cancer trumps hammer-wielding СКАЧАТЬ