Dead Shark Shuffle

SATURDAY 31ST DECEMBER, 2016 LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

This will is made by me, Michael (Mick) Jarvis, of Flat 3, Wytham Court, Godstow Road, Wolvercote OX2 8NZ, born Oxford, 30th November 1982, with respect to the disposition of all worldwide property and assets owned by me at the time of my death. I revoke all prior wills, codicils and testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will and testament.

I am not married or in a civil partnership.

I appoint my mother SANDRA JANE CLEARY of Bankfoot Cottage, High Street, Finstock OX7 3DA to be the only executor and trustee of my Will.

I give EVERYTHING I OWN to dog FRIDAY of Flat 3, Wytham Court, Godstow Road, Wolvercote OX2 8NZ.

The term 'Estate' means all the assets I can dispose of by will. My executor and trustee may sell all or any of the assets in my Estate as they consider appropriate. From my Estate they must pay any debts and my funeral and testamentary expenses.

I give my Residue Fund to dog FRIDAY of Flat 3, Wytham Court, Godstow Road, Wolvercote OX2 8NZ. Failing this, my Residue Fund shall be distributed to my heirs-at-law, whose identities and shares are to be determined by the intestacy rules for England. Dated this 31st day of December, 2016.

Signed: ____________________________

MICHAEL (MICK) JARVIS

No doubt I wasn't the only person in the world feeling low on New Year's Eve, but I was the only one that was me. Kanhai would be at home, with his wife and baby. My mum had asked me out to hers, in Finstock, but I knew it would be all jolly Rogers and bonny Annies knocking back that mulled wine muck. No other offers. So I was on my own, just dog Friday for company. I'd rather talk to her than most humans anyway.

I poured another whisky and splash, lit a spliff, put some vinyl on the deck. U-Roy, Rasta Ambassador. I don't know where the idea of ending it all had come from, but it did, a few months ago. It didn't seem such a bad one, and I couldn't leave it alone. I didn't feel upset, exactly, just defeated, like something inside me had surrendered. It wasn't so much that I was alone, missing companionship and love: more that I was missing something inside, that made love possible.

I have this stupid habit of falling for any woman that smiles at me. Makes me super-vulnerable to infatuation with waitresses or barmaids. As Kanhai points out, I'm on a hiding to nothing there. My job's okay, software development. I can do it, sometimes enjoy it, and the pay's not bad. But I've been doing it for a decade. I couldn't do it for another ten years. Right now I feel like I couldn't do it for another ten minutes.

I can't see the point of anything. So why not just put a stop? It'd be easy, then no more worries, no more pointless anythings. I couldn't think of a good reason not to. My mum might miss me, but she'd be missing the child I used to be, not the gump I am now. And she has other children and grandchildren. My dad – forget it. Not seen him for years, he never gave a monkeys. Dog Friday would miss me, but the person she really loves is my neighbour in flat 5. Mrs Swainston often has her in, and spoils her rotten. Friday would forget me in no time. So I'd provide for her. I googled a form, filled it out, my Last Will and Testament. It seemed to do the necessary.

I printed off two copies, signed them, pinned one to the notice board in the kitchen, and put one in an envelope addressed to my mum. Turned U-Roy over, thinking, there's no rush, I may as well wait until the end of the album.

It was a good album.

When it ended, I switched off the system. Was this it, then? How was I going to do it? I'd considered various possibilities, with no obvious conclusion. I didn't have enough of anything to O.D. Didn't have a gun, or any poisons. Didn't fancy anything too painful, like hanging or hari-kari.

I did know where there was a pile of bricks, where someone was building an extension, down Godstow Road. I could put half a dozen in a rucksack, strap it on tight, jump in the river. That would do. Couldn't take Friday on a trip like that, though. And couldn't leave her alone in the flat.

I grabbed my rucksack, took her down the landing, and knocked on the door of Flat 5.

Knocked again, waited.

Mrs Swainston was out.

I took Friday back to the flat, hung up my rucksack. It was cold out, and I started thinking, maybe I should talk to someone before going too far with this. But who? New Years, everyone would be busy, including the Samaritans. Especially them.

This voice I can hear, I thought. Who's that? Saying, do, do it, do it now.

And is that my grandad, shouting above it, like some stuttering rapper? Mick you could, Mick you could do, Mick you could do better.

My hands were shaking. I stuck them in my pockets. I was in a bit of a dither. Was I just being stupid, wallowing in self-pity? I'd been in the States once, spent a few days with two heavy dudes from LA, crossing the plains in their VW camper. One had said, 'The Limey's a real lightweight,' referring to me. And maybe I was. Easy to lose touch with gravity when you're out of your element. Was I being lightweight now, in dithering about suicide? Or was suicide the lightweight option, a cop-out?

One book on the bookshelves seemed to light up. My grandad died last summer. When we went through his stuff, last summer, he'd stuck little labels on things, who they were to go to. It said 'Mick' on three boxes of old LPs. He knew I collected vinyl, he'd sort of promised me them. And one book, a battered old I Ching, the book that was lit up now. I took it down. I'd tried consulting it once or twice, never made much sense of what it said. I tossed three old coins, six times, wrote down the lines: yin, moving yang, yin yin yin yang. Looked it up.

Youthful inexperience, obscurity.

A mountain over a rugged valley, where a stream springs from rocks. Peril, stopping progress. Youthful and inexperienced, be sincere, give and receive help. There will be success: developments are at work, things will change.

It seemed to be saying: you're still young, things will change, wait. Possibly better than jumping in a freezing river. I turned the page, looked up the moving yang in the second place.

There will be good fortune. Bear with those whose knowledge differs from yours, and remember the goodness and resourcefulness of women. You will be able to sustain the burden of your family.

It sort of made sense, and felt quietly positive, despite the obscure perils.

I found out later that developments were at work, at that moment, just three miles away, in the almost deserted teaching block of St Mark's College, down in the city centre.

PROFESSOR UDVARI, ST MARK'S COLLEGE

Udvari Tamas took a yellow cigarette with an oval cross-section from a soft pack. Jin Ling, a Russian brand. He lit it, put his feet on the desk, stared out of the dark window across the empty quad. His reflection stared back at him: very short grey hair, grey suit, a wreath of grey smoke. The walls of his study were grey too, where they weren't lined with books. It was on the third floor, peaceful even when college was busy. He checked his watch: 11 p.m. It would be midnight in Budapest, bells would be ringing, fireworks would be frightening dogs across the city. He was a long way from his old home, though, and was no longer close to anyone there. He wasn't close to many in the UK either. His only confidant was the Master of St Mark's. When he heard a light tap on his door, he knew who'd be calling. 'Come,' he said.

The Master looked round the door and shook his head, setting white curls in motion. 'Not partying, Tamas?' he said. 'Not going to see the new year in?'

'Already it is new year in my country. I will sleep soon.'

'Of course, yes. A quick word?'

Udvari pointed to a chair.

The Master sat. 'To do with your work on real estate markets. You know the college is planning to sell some land, north of the city?'

'I was at the faculty board that discussed it. I did not offer a view,' Udvari said.

'And you've heard of the OxCam Growth Arc? I'd be grateful if you'd have a look at that. What it means for the college.'

'I have. I sent you a short paper.'

'A paper?'

'Yesterday. A proposal.'

'Thank you. I'll read it,' the Master said, 'but can you give me the drift now?'

'The college has been in existence for nearly seven hundred years. It should be still in existence in seven hundred years time. Yes?'

'Of course.'

'Whatever we do, we cannot guarantee that. But we can make sure what happens on our watch promotes rather than militates against it.'

'Seven hundred years,' the Master said. 'The long view.'

'Yes. The OxCam Arc will concentrate UK growth in this region through 2050. Constructors will make half a trillion in profit. Landowners the same.'

'Jesus.'

'If the landowners also owned the construction companies,' Udvari said, 'you can do the math ...'

'A trillion?'

'Net profit,' Udvari said. 'And if they sold the land leasehold ...'

'They'd have their cake and eat it. Ridiculous. Couldn't possibly work.'

'Read my paper.' Udvari stood, stepped to the window.

'I will.' The Master joined him, looking out at the dark quadrangle, thinking hard. 'Who would we need?' he said.

'You've had the important people at high table,' Udvari said. 'The university estates person.'

'Cruickshank. Yes.'

'The city planner.'

'Conrad Sefton-Shaw,' the master said. 'And James Alleyn, one of the college's lawyers.'

'I talked with him,' Udvari said. 'He also has connections with a construction company. And a new police commissioner will be appointed. Or elected.'

'Elected, yes, in May,' the Master said. 'It'll be young Carter. Read Modern History here at St Mark's. Was in my tutorial group, in fact. I'll invite him to dine with us. Perhaps before the ballot.'

'Do,' Udvari said. 'I'll start with the planner.'

SATURDAY 6TH MAY, 2017

CRASH

A fresh spring morning in Wolvercote, on the north-west edge of Oxford. No thoughts of jumping in the river today. Hope springs easier when the sun shines. I wanted a proper weekend breakfast, and was walking to the shop to get a grapefruit. If I'd known I'd end up being accused of murder, I might have stuck with toast and marmalade.

A dark green Bentley came purring down from the railway bridge. The driver's window was open, he was raging at someone. 'What? You bitch! Him?' The car lurched towards me, I had to scuttle to the kerb. The driver was glaring at me, I'd no idea why. I'd never seen him before.

Forty yards in front of him I could see a number 6 bus, stuck on the corner, blocking the road. I thought he must have seen it … but he was still mouthing off over his shoulder when the Bentley slammed into its back end.

For a second, everything went quiet. Then steam hissed and high-pitched cries came from the crumpled car. Christ, there's kids in there, I thought. Someone's hurt. I hurried over. A woman's voice came from inside, sounding quite calm in the circumstances. 'What are you doing? Are you mad?'

I couldn't see much through the tinted windows. I went to the driver's door. 'You alright? Can I help?'

'Bastard,' he said, opening the door, hauling himself out and upright. 'You bastard.'

What is this? What did I do? He was two inches taller than me, fifty pounds heavier, maybe twenty years older. Over-weight and out of shape, but looking like he could still do some damage. I backed away.

The bus driver, a young Asian man, came towards us, arms spread, looking from the damage to its perpetrator, who ignored him and advanced on me.

'Conrad, don't be ridiculous, he's only trying to help.' The woman again, inside the car. She had black hair and pale arms. The man she'd called Conrad stopped. I kept going, round the back of the car, put its width between us. She got out. God she's lovely, I thought. I backed away from her too.

She opened the rear door, leaned in. 'Children, pay attention,' she said. 'Are you all right? Alasdair?'

'S'pose.'

'Bella? Charlotte?'

'Yes momma.'

'Good. Out, all of you. Get right away, it might explode.' She turned to me. 'Have you got a card?'

'A card?'

'A business card.'

'Oh. Yes. Should have.' I fumbled out my wallet, passed one to her.

'Give me two,' she said. I did. 'Here's his details,' she said, passing one to Conrad. 'Mick Jarvis. He's a witness.' The other card disappeared, like magic. How did she know I was Mick rather than Mike?

'A witness?' Conrad said.

'To the accident.'

'Why?'

'Don't be a buffoon. Call the police, now. And your insurance.'

Three pale children stood on the pavement: a tubby pre-teen boy and two tiny girls, like twins. I thought they looked shaken and embarrassed. The woman noticed too. 'Give me some cash,' she said to Conrad. 'They need ice-creams,' pointing at the children, 'and you need to talk to him,' pointing at the bus driver.

Conrad sniffed, handed her a note.

I headed for the shop, through a small crowd of on-lookers, thinking I'd get my grapefruit and go home.

They didn't have any grapefruit. They did have oranges and mangoes.

The woman came in. Her children started rummaging in a large cabinet labelled 'POPSICLES'. She stood by the door, watching what was going on outside.

I was couldn't decide between oranges and mangoes. But like everyone apart from the kids, I was soon watching through the open door. Angry Conrad had the driver by the lapels. A big man stepped out of the crowd, said to Conrad, 'How can it be his fault? You drove into the back of a stationary vehicle ...'

'Oh bugger,' the woman said. She turned to me. 'Mr Jarvis. Mick. You might not recognise me, but I know you. Sort of. I pass you at the bus stop most mornings.' She pressed a £50 note into my hand. 'Get their ices, can you? While I try to prevent mayhem …' She went out.

I wasn't used to having custody of children. 'Okay,' I said. 'What do you want?' One girl smiled, one looked at her feet. The boy said, 'Won't explode.' Bored, like he was in a car crash every day. They wanted the largest lollies. I bought an orange and a mango, paid for the lot, and gave the £50 to the boy, to return to his parents.

Outside, I sat on a sunny white-washed wall and peeled the orange. The kids formed a loose huddle round me. I felt like one of those Pyrenean mountain dogs, that doesn't have to do anything except hang out with the sheep. Until a wolf or a bear comes along.

I couldn't help watching the woman. Black dress, boots, Ray-Bans. Real class. Younger than the man, full of life, animated, until sometimes her face just emptied. She broke up the mêlée, apologised to the driver and his protector, told Conrad who to phone, what to say.

She looked across, checking on the children. She smiled, nodded to me. At least I thought it was to me. I smiled and nodded back. The driver started up the bus, dieseled away.

Conrad came over, sent the children back to their mother, then got right in my face. 'Stay away from my wife,' he said, half whisper, half growl. More bear than wolf.

I stared back, tried to hold my ground. I should have said, stay away from me, if you don't want your features re-arranging. But I just turned away, walked away, said nothing.

Back at the flat, I'd lost my appetite. I sat down, closed my eyes, tried to meditate: to be aware of the shirt on my back, my breathing, the most distant sound. But all I could feel were her eyes on mine. All I could hear was her calm voice. All I could think was, I've no choice but to stay away from her. I've no idea who she is.

MONDAY 19TH JUNE

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JONES, THAMES VALLEY POLICE

DI Jones sat in his cubicle in the corner of the mostly open-plan office of SPAT (the Specialist Pro-Active Team), on the second floor of the Operations Building. He was making notes for the upcoming round of staff appraisals, and very bored. He was pleased to be disturbed by a buzz from Rita, the SPAT SASO (Secretarial and Administrative Support Operative). 'The Chief wants you,' she said. 'She's with the Commissioner.'

Jones wondered what was up. Not likely to be anything good. It would be the first time he'd met the new Police and Crime Commissioner, biggest of the Thames Valley bigwigs. He popped into the gents, peered in the mirror. He should have shaved more carefully this morning. His hair needed cutting, and a touch of that black dye his wife insisted on. And there was an incipient zit on his nose, which reddened alarmingly when he scratched it. 'Bugger,' he said, frowning at himself in the mirror.