Grief Encounters by Stuart Pawson

six prancing stallions held pride of place on a sideboard. Plumbing, it appeared, was a good line to be in. The gas fire was set low, which made a pleasant change, and the television was off, which was unique. Len had been sitting in an easy chair, with a small table pulled up in front of it. A pile of tobacco, some Rizla papers and a small pile of something else gave clues as to what he’d been doing. He swept everything up and pushed it all unceremoniously into the biscuit tin he kept his stash in.
    When he realised that I wasn’t born yesterday he said: ‘It’s for my knees. My arthritis. It’s the only thing that helps.’
    His son asked if I needed him and I shook my head. He left, pulling the door closed behind him.
    ‘And does it help?’ I asked, nodding towards the tin.
    ‘Yeah, I think it does. Anyway, it’s cheaper than beer and doesn’t rot your liver. And you don’t have to listen to the same bunch of brain-dead bigots every night while you’re enjoying it.’
    I let that sink in, then said: ‘I’m sorry about Magdalena, and how the news was broken to you. I’d like you to tell me all about her.’
    ‘What’s to tell?’ he wondered.
    ‘A lot more than you’d believe,’ I assured him. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Where and when did you meet?’
    ‘Up at the Oak,’ he replied, naming Headingley’s most famous pub. ‘We used to chat, like you do. Pull each other’s leg. Then I did some odd jobs for her; plumbed her washing machine in; things like that. You know how it is.’ He smiled at a memory. ‘We started making plumbing jokes, said it was a mutual interest in our plumbing that brought us together. Then her landlord started cutting up rough, wanting rid of his tenants, so I invited her to move in here.’
    ‘When would that be?’
    ‘Back in 1989. It was a funny week. Princess Anne and Mark Phillips separated and we got together. Kirsty MacColl was in the top ten.’
    I remembered something from the PM report. ‘Did Magdalena have any children?’ I asked, knowing that she’d given birth at least once in her lifetime.
    ‘Yeah. She had a daughter. Angela. She came to live here too, but she was a proper little madam. Wouldn’t go to school, dodgy friends, answering back all the time. She was with us for about five years. Her dad had left some money in trust for her until she was sixteen. Day after her birthday she left. I was glad to see the back of her, but Magda was upset. I said she’d be back as soon as the money ran out, but Magda said there was an awful lot for her to get through. I asked how much but she just said more than I’d believe.’
    ‘Have you heard from her since?’
    ‘No. Not a word.’
    I wanted to tell him that I’d met Magdalena, knew her slightly, but decided not to. He might not gain any comfort from learning that I’d gazed upon her naked body in the presence of several other randy students. I said: ‘So when did you and Magda split up?’
    He looked down at the carpet, as if contemplating the answer, although I’d gamble that he knew the exact hour and date of her leaving. It was a painful memory. ‘Last year,’ he replied eventually. ‘August.’
    ‘What brought it about?’
    He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe that she’d done that to him. ‘I…I don’t know. She just said she had to go. It was for the best. She took most of her clothes and that’s all. Hardly any money. I couldn’t understand it. Something from her past had caught up with her, but I didn’t know what.’
    He was silent for a while, and I left him alone with his thoughts. I had dozens of questions but it’s always better if the information is volunteered. And he needed to talk. We’re not counsellors, but I’ve got a qualification in listening.
    ‘How did she die?’ he asked, turning to face me.
    I held his gaze before telling him: ‘Somebody beat her up. She…died.’
    ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Who?’ I asked.
    ‘Was there a