The 24 Hour Jazz Cafe

Chapter 1

It was the day after Emily’s funeral. Rupert Watts was at home, home being a new three bedroom detached on an estate at the end of the bypass. They had bought the house within weeks of their relationship beginning. Emily had been keen to move, Rupert had been keen to make her happy.

Emily had voiced concern about the number of properties being allocated to social housing. The estate agent had countered that those houses were at the opposite end of the estate. Both parties avoided saying what they actually meant:

Will there be any ruffians on the estate?

Perhaps, but they won’t be near you.

Rupert liked the idea of a three bedroom house so that he could install a home cinema in one of the spare rooms. Emily’s fears about the neighbourhood proved unfounded. The bypass was a minute away, there were pubs and shops on the main road and there was a large Morrisons within a ten minute drive. 

Emily had been cremated, as per her wishes. Of course, Emily being Emily her send-off had been anything but by the book. Her funeral had been what, in New Orleans, might be called a funeral with music, a funeral for a lover of jazz music. The remaining members of Emily’s band – 23 Skidoo – had reformed for a one off gig in her memory.

They played a sombre piece as the mourners entered the crematorium. But as Emily’s body was ‘cut loose’ as the saying goes in New Orleans, 23 Skidoo lifted the mood with an up tempo version of Just a Closer Walk with Thee. Then, the majority of the congregation made the short trip to the promenade where Rupert and Emily’s mother tossed a large wreath into the sea while the band played. A stone would be placed in the Garden of Remembrance within the grounds of the crematorium.

Throughout the ordeal of the wake Rupert smiled bravely while his back was patted and his shoulder gripped by well-meaning relatives and friends all offering condolences. He also kept thinking about Mitch. Understandable since Mitch was his oldest friend and given Mitch’s relationship with Emily. Mitch had run away, disappeared two years earlier. Despite many unanswered questions as to why, Rupert had stepped in to try and fill the gap left in Emily’s life. They’d been happy too, perhaps in spite of the awkward circumstances of their union. Initially Rupert had questioned his ability to fill Mitch’s shoes, wondered if Emily was merely settling for the next best thing. He had also felt anger that Mitch could simply leave Emily, resentment that he didn’t care enough to say anything after a lifetime’s friendship.

But gradually these emotions faded and Rupert hadn’t really thought about his absent friend until Emily became really ill and then again yesterday, at the funeral. Logical, Rupert supposed, Emily’s death bringing back memories of Mitch’s abandonment. They’d been friends all their lives and Mitch had lived with Emily for ten years. But there was more to it than that. Rupert was all but convinced he’d seen Mitch yesterday, in the background at the crematorium, distant, but there.

Once the last of the mourners had left, Rupert began immediately to tidy up, obsessively moving plates and dishes, loading the dishwasher. He had maintained an air of solemn calm all day and could contain himself no longer.

He wiped all the kitchen surfaces and washed the floor until sweat dripped from his forehead. Next he dragged the vacuum from under the stairs and began to clean the living room, each action becoming more violent until suddenly the brush became jammed under the sofa. Rupert swore and kicked out at the sofa freeing the brush. Incapable of controlling himself he swung the hose at the wall, again and again, chipping the plaster and leaving the vacuum hose bent before hurling the vacuum itself at the wall. Finally spent, Rupert collapsed to his knees and sobbed on the carpet.

The remainder of the evening was a blur. He had stared at the television, leafed through a book, listened to music, tried the television again, unable and unwilling to focus. He paced the downstairs rooms of the house. Living room, dining room, kitchen, conservatory, performing laps of the ground floor until, eventually, he dozed off in a chair. When he awoke to find himself alone Rupert had been too tired to cry and instead got into bed still wearing his clothes.

Now he was awake, staring at the ceiling, music playing in the background. Sleep had been brief and filled with predictable and painful dreams of Emily. He didn’t know what to do next. The hospice where Emily had spent such a large portion of the final months of her life had offered bereavement counselling. In his current frame of mind Rupert could see little benefit. He had bills to pay, a job to attend, his life would go on. To all intents and purposes he would be okay. He would get up, carry on with each day. But, with Emily’s death so raw and fresh, Rupert could see little point. Why drift through the rest of his life? he thought, simply existing when the colour had drained away? Perhaps counselling might help after all?

‘Rupert.’

Rupert frowned but did not move. The voice calling him from downstairs was instantly recognisable as that of his missing friend, Mitch Johnson. The letterbox rattled.

‘Rupert. Open the door.’

Rupert took a moment to consider the situation as he hauled himself out of bed and walked downstairs. Did he want to see Mitch? Was he ready to see the man who had abandoned Emily without a word?

‘Damn it, Rupert, come on!’

Downstairs was dark. Rupert had closed the curtains in the living room, kitchen and dining room - out of respect for the dead or a need to hide from the living. He opened the front door and for several seconds the two men observed each other, Rupert the taller by four or five inches and lacking the slight paunch evident on the shorter man. Then Rupert punched Mitch just below the left eye, hard enough to hurt but not enough to knock Mitch over.

‘Ow, Christ! What the fuck was that for?’ Mitch instinctively pressed a hand to his face.

‘For leaving her. How could you?’ he demanded. ‘How could you leave her? How?’ He swung again at Mitch, then again, tears rolling down his face, blurring his vision. Mitch stepped forward into the blows and grabbed his oldest friend in the world, gripping him tightly, feeling at first resistance and then submission as Rupert sobbed on his shoulder.

‘She was so ill,’ Rupert cried. ‘How could you leave her like that, Mitch? How could you leave me?’

Mitch had no words, no answer that would even begin to justify his actions. Instead he led Rupert inside, supporting his weight until they got to the kitchen where Rupert bent over the worktop and rested his face on his arms, his body racked with sobs.

Eventually he lifted his head, his eyes puffy and red, his face stained with tears.

‘I’m sorry I hit you,’ he said, taking several deep breaths to calm himself.

‘Least I deserve,’ Mitch replied.

‘I’ll make a brew; I assume you’re staying.’

‘Are you likely to hit me again?’

Rupert shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. Like you said, least you deserve.’

Mitch hesitated, rubbed his face. ‘Fair enough. What’s this music? It’s pretty miserable.’

Rupert listened for a moment. ‘Antony and the Johnsons. I like it, it’s about not being alone.’

‘I’m not sure listening to this is going to make you feel any better, mate.’

Rupert glared at his friend. ‘I don’t want to feel better and I think you’re being a bit too free and easy with the word mate given the circumstances.’

Mitch sighed but said nothing.

‘You were there?’ Rupert asked, filling the kettle. ‘At the crem?’

Mitch nodded. ‘Yes, I nearly came earlier but I couldn’t face either of you. Couldn’t see how I could do anything except make things worse.’

It couldn’t have been any worse, Rupert thought. He put down the mugs, looked Mitch in the eye. ‘I hope you never have to experience it,’ he said bitterly, before adding, ‘but of course you chose not to experience it, didn’t you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mitch offered, looking away. They both knew it fell a long way short of what was needed.

‘For Emily’s death, for leaving or for not telling me?’

Mitch tried to avoid the question. ‘It was a jazz funeral? New Orleans style?’

Rupert shrugged. ‘That always was her thing, jazz. I never did get it. Right up your street I expect.’

It was Mitch’s turn to shrug.

‘You knew,’ Rupert stated as he handed a mug to Mitch. ‘That’s why you left.’

Mitch nodded. ‘I didn’t know exactly what, but I knew she was going to be ill, really ill.’

‘Like when we were kids and you knew about the girl who disappeared.’

Mitch took a deep breath and exhaled but said nothing.

‘You should’ve told me about Emily. No,’ Rupert shook his head, correcting himself. ‘You should have stayed with her.’

‘You loved her.’

‘She was yours, Mitch, and you left her!’ Rupert cried, tears again building in his eyes. He snatched a tea towel from the counter and buried his face in it. ‘She never forgot,’ he said, his breathing shallow. ‘It was your name she cried out when the pain was unbearable. When she didn’t know where she was, who she was, she called for you while I held her hand and watched her suffer.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please stop saying you’re sorry or I might just have to punch you again and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.’

Mitch looked at Rupert and dared to chance a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

Despite everything that had happened to him, Rupert returned the smile, but only for a second.

‘I missed you, Mitch, every damned day. Why couldn’t you tell me she was going to be ill? Tell Emily? And where the hell have you been?’

‘All big questions my friend. You know I couldn’t have said anything to Em. She’d have thought I was crazy, just like everyone did when we were kids. As for not telling you, that was a mistake, maybe.’

Rupert said nothing but waited expectantly. A few moments later Mitch continued.

‘If I’d told you, you might have believed, no, you would have believed me. But you’d have either told Em or tried to make me tell her. Either way it would have been a mess.’

‘In case you missed the point of yesterday, it was a mess. Emily’s dead, Mitch, she’s...’

Rupert paused, closed his eyes and tried to regain his composure. It took a minute but he didn’t break down.

‘I know,’ Mitch said gently. ‘But at least you were there for her. You cared for her, loved her. I couldn’t have done any of that, so I ran away.’

‘You always were the weird one.’

‘And you always looked out for me.’

Rupert led Mitch into the living room.

‘Bit dark in here,’ Mitch said.

‘Didn’t feel like seeing anybody,’ Rupert replied, glancing at Mitch before opening the curtains and switching off the stereo.

Mitch picked up a photograph from a side table and smiled. It was a shot of Rupert and Emily at the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. The last holiday they had taken before Emily became too ill to travel further than the local hospice every Tuesday for day therapy. Mitch had also taken Emily to Barcelona, shortly before he had left her in the middle of the night.

Rupert stepped forward and took the picture from Mitch, replacing it gently on the side table. They sat on opposite sides of the room, on the edge of their seats, the tension palpable.

‘I never stopped thinking about her, about either of you. It was so hard,’ Mitch said earnestly.

‘I’m sure it was but it would’ve been harder to stay. I know because I did. I was here for her, cared for her, right up until...’

Mitch’s eyes flashed with a sudden anger. ‘You didn’t know she was going to be ill when you moved in. With me gone you saw your chance and took it. There was nothing noble about what you did.’

Rupert looked at Mitch. ‘You’re on thin ice mate,’ he warned. ‘Creaky thin.’

‘Bollocks. You saw your chance and took it. How long before you bought this place? All shacked up together in your modern little love nest.’

‘We bought this house because she couldn’t bear to spend another minute in the place she’d shared with you!’

Mitch raised his hands in surrender. ‘I didn’t come back to fight. I came to see you, to make up.’

‘We didn’t fall out. You just fucked off.’

Mitch sighed. ‘You remember Love Story, Ryan O’Neal, Ali McGraw? She gets ill, he’s brave but she still dies and then he’s sitting there at the end all alone without any answers.’

Rupert nodded.

‘Well I couldn’t face that. I wasn’t brave enough to lose her, to be left behind.’

‘So you left Emily instead.’

‘I didn’t say I was proud of myself.’

Rupert glanced around the room at the reminders of a life shared with Emily: photographs, candles, the willow tree figurines she loved.

‘I can understand, sort of, why you ran away. It was terrifying and horrible. But given Emily’s condition...I don’t know Mitch, I just thought...’

Mitch frowned. ‘You said condition as if it were separate from her illness.’

‘I meant the baby. Emily was pregnant.’

The expression on Mitch’s face told Rupert this was the first his friend was hearing of this.

‘Pregnant!’ The colour drained from Mitch’s skin. ‘The baby, is it...where?’

‘There is no baby,’ Rupert said gently, his resentment toward Mitch dissipating slightly. ‘Em miscarried about three months in. She was devastated, we both were. She was diagnosed not long after.’

Mitch looked shocked. Rupert’s first reaction was to comfort his friend but his own loss was so raw, his anger towards Mitch still so prominent that he simply couldn’t find any words. Instead Rupert put his face in his hands and exhaled loudly while Mitch sat back on the couch and gazed up at the ceiling in disbelief.

‘So why did you come back? Why now?’ Rupert asked at last.

‘I knew Emily had died.’

‘That didn’t mean you had to come and see me.’

‘You’ve been my best mate since I can remember. My earliest memory is of playing with you at nursery. How could I not come and see you?’ Mitch asked, surprised.

Rupert sighed. ‘I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you, but you hurt me, and Em, so much. I’m just not sure I can let you off the hook for that quite yet.’

Mitch looked at his cup, began to fiddle with the handle. Rupert just didn’t have the energy to stay mad at his friend. To see Mitch trying to come to terms with the loss of a child he hadn’t even known existed, doubtless feeling the loss of Emily as well was too much.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rupert offered. ‘I know it’s hard. I think...’

‘Twist and shout,’ Mitch said suddenly.

The remark caught Rupert unaware, but only for a moment. ‘Your timing stinks,’ he said before leaving the room.

Mitch was out of his depth. He felt ashamed that he had treated his oldest friend in such an appalling manner; was embarrassed for thinking he could magically fix their relationship by instigating one of their teenage games of Beatles versus Stones. He decided to leave and found Rupert in the kitchen making another cup of tea.

‘Rupert, look, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I’m gonna go. You’ve got my number if you decide you want to talk about anything but I’ll understand if you don’t bother.’

He hesitated for a moment, hoping for a reaction. Receiving none Mitch turned to leave. Rupert, staring at the boiling kettle said, ‘Not Fade Away.’

Mitch smiled and turned to face Rupert. ‘That was a cover, Buddy Holly wrote it.’

‘So was Twist and Shout, genius.’

They had been having this debate since they were teenagers but today it was more than that, it was a sign that there was hope for their friendship. They continued to fire song titles at each other, trying to test the other’s knowledge of the two famous bands.

‘It’s All Over Now, number one single.’

‘Cover version, written by Womack and Womack. From Me To You, also number one.’

‘Satisfaction. Beatles never wrote a riff that good.’

‘How about Day Tripper for a riff?’

‘Fine, You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Choir, production, French horn.’

‘All You Need Is Love.’

‘Hippy rubbish and you know it. Sympathy For the Devil, best lyrics ever written, epic song.’

Mitch nodded. ‘Well played, sir. My final effort, White Album, Blackbird.’

Rupert raised his mug in salute. ‘You can have that one, when something's perfect you just have to hold your hands up.’

Mitch returned to the living room while Rupert made the drinks. Mitch could hear his friend humming Blackbird. He looked again at the photograph on the side table taken in Barcelona. In it Emily was smiling; she looked beautiful and happy, healthy. He was about to again pick up the frame when Rupert entered the room and the moment was gone.

‘There’s something else,’ Mitch said quietly. ‘You remember when we were at school, Naomi?’ He was referring to the abduction and murder of a fifteen year old schoolgirl. It had been national news partly because it concerned a young girl but also because it was, apparently, the first recorded murder in the town’s history. The story had been national news but was pushed from the front pages after one day owing to the divorce of Charles and Diana.

‘Of course I remember,’ Rupert replied.

‘It’s going to happen again.’

Chapter 2

The words were stated without emphasis or embellishment and they hung in the air like a cloud until Rupert spoke and blew them away.

‘You’ve seen something?’

Mitch nodded. ‘At first I thought it was a dream. But the girl looked different.’

 ‘I can’t get into this mate, not now,’ said Rupert firmly, almost stumbling from the living room. Emily had been dead for one week. She had been cremated less than twenty-four hours earlier. The house was filled with her things, her smell. Rupert just wanted to curl up and go to sleep and now Mitch was asking him to believe he’d had a vision of someone else dying.

Mitch followed his friend to the conservatory. Rupert was resting his forehead on the door. His eyes were closed. His breath was beginning to fog up the glass. 

‘Do you ever think about Naomi?’ Mitch asked. ‘About what happened to her?’

‘Christ Mitch, leave it alone can’t you?’

Mitch waited. Rupert opened his eyes. He traced the letter e in lower case in the mist from his breath and surrounded it with a capital R. He sniffed and wiped the glass with the palm of his hand. Then he spoke.

‘Yes, I think about her, not so much anymore. But then I only know what was reported in the papers, and what you told me. It was a long time ago. More than half a lifetime ago, we were kids.’

Mitch nodded. ‘I think about it a lot, especially lately.’

Rupert glared at Mitch. ‘I’ve had other things to occupy me. In fact all I’ve thought about recently is Emily, how ill she was and how I wished she’d die.’

Mitch frowned. ‘You wished her dead?’

‘No, you fool. I wanted her well, alive, vibrant. I wanted to grow old with her and see the world. Instead, when we first met, I stepped aside while you had a relationship with her. Then when you buggered off I watched her suffer and lose a battle with her own body. So yes, in the end, I wanted it to stop.’

Mitch and Rupert looked out at the garden for several minutes, thinking about their own past, and their entwined lives. They were born minutes apart in the same hospital and had lived the first hours of their lives lying side by side in the nursery. They attended the same primary school and had been friends since their very first day when they’d exchanged packed lunches.

Rupert believed without question that his friend possessed a gift of some sort. There had been too many examples over the years for him simply to dismiss as coincidence what Mitch could do.

At first Mitch’s ability had been something of a private joke between them. Mitch would know if it was going to rain, even if the weather forecast predicted bright sunshine. He had correctly told Rupert which was his favourite colour, predicted when his friend would be ill and, over the years, Mitch had forecast lots of bigger events which, often by accident, Rupert had discovered to be accurate.

But teenagers are prone to showing off and Mitch was a highly intelligent boy who possessed a gift that made him different from everyone else. Despite repeated warnings from Rupert, Mitch simply couldn’t help himself. It only took a couple of predictions; parlour trick stuff to impress girls, for rumours to spread around the school that Mitch was a freak. Then, when they were fifteen, there had been Naomi and Rupert remembered it like it happened yesterday.

Mitch bundled into Rupert’s bedroom, sweating, face flushed, breathless.

‘Rupert! Rupert, get up, a girl’s missing.’

Rupert pushed his face into the pillow.

‘Rupert, for goodness sake, are you listening? Naomi from school, she’s missing!’

Rupert rolled onto his side, squinting against the light.

‘The fit one in our Art class?’ he asked.

Mitch was nodding excitedly. ‘Yes, I had a vision last night, bad one, wet the bed, but it was her…’

‘Jesus, Mitch, you wet the bed? Why would you tell me that? You’re fifteen, Jesus.’

Mitch was undeterred. ‘Can you please focus on the bit about Naomi missing and get up?’

Rupert sat up, drank some water and groaned. It was barely half past seven in the morning.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Five minutes to get dressed and then you can tell me all about it.’

When Rupert emerged from the bathroom wearing his school uniform, Mitch was hovering on the landing.

‘She was face down in water, a pool, pond of some sort. Not moving. I think she might be dead, Rupert.’

‘Christ, Mitch, calm down!’ Rupert hissed. ‘And do not start spouting stuff like that when we get to school.’

‘Surely we have to go to the police,’ Mitch said, confused.

‘And say what? You’ve seen a pretty girl from school face down in a pool of water. That’ll go down well. No, we go to school and see if she’s there.’

‘And if she’s not?’

Rupert shrugged. ‘We’ll ask her mates or something. First job, calm down, go to school.’

They got an earlier bus than usual and Mitch insisted on waiting at the gate so he could see everyone as they arrived.

‘There,’ Rupert said suddenly, spying her first owing to his superior height. ‘Just got off the school bus, the same bus we’d have been on if you hadn’t woken me up so early with your ramblings.’

Mitch watched with a mixture of shock and relief on his face as Naomi breezed past them and onto the school grounds along with dozens of other kids.

‘Can we go and get a coffee now?’ Rupert asked, annoyed. ‘I’m knackered and we haven’t even had morning registration.’

‘I’m not making it up,’ Mitch insisted as they walked inside. ‘It was her, something’s going to happen, I need to warn her.’

Rupert grabbed his friend. ‘Mitch, listen to yourself. You’re hardly the most popular kid here, and I don’t think marching up to one of the prettiest, most attractive girls in the school and telling her you’ve seen her dead is a good way to change that. She’s fine, perfectly safe, leave it alone.’

Mitch stalked off, sulking. At morning break he found Rupert.

‘What’s up with you?’ Rupert asked. ‘You’ve got a face like a smacked arse.’

‘Just almost got a detention,’ he replied sulkily.

‘We only had one lesson, what have you done?’

‘I might have told Mr Littlefield about my vision,’ he said sheepishly.

Rupert’s mouth fell open. ‘You bloody idiot. You’re lucky he didn’t suspend you. After what we said this morning. God Mitch, you really are your own worst enemy. What did he say?’

Mitch shrugged. ‘Told me to stop spreading vile rumours and that he was very disappointed in my behaviour.’

The following day, Naomi was not in registration and Mitch was beside himself. Word spread quickly around the school that her parents had reported her missing the previous evening as she had not returned home after school. The morning after that the day began with the breaking news that the body of a girl had been found by a dog walker. She was face down in a shallow pond in the local park.

When interviewed, as all Naomi’s teachers were, Mr Littlefield mentioned that Mitch had approached him about the girl being in danger. The police had already heard about Mitch Johnson because several pupils from the school