Free Death Can’t Take a Joke by Anya Lipska

past office hours.
    ‘
Czesc,
Wiktor! How’s the weather in Swansea? … Oh? Shame. Listen, have you had a chance to check that reg number I texted you? That’s right, a black Land Rover Discovery …’
    His big face creased in a smile. ‘
Wspaniale
! Text me over the address, would you?’

Ten
    Kershaw woke from sleep with a violent start, convinced there was an intruder in her flat. She held her breath, straining to hear what might have woken her. Then she heard the fridge door slam, hard enough to clank the bottles in the door against each other.
Ben.
    She threw herself back down and, putting a pillow over her head, waited for her heartbeat to subside. Just as she was starting to drift off, she heard the ringtone of Ben’s mobile, muffled at first, like it was in his pocket, then getting louder as he retrieved it.
    Fuck!
Until now, having their own flats – hers at the wrong end of Canning Town, his in leafy Wanstead – meant that even though they spent most nights together, if she felt in need of a bit of space or a solid night’s sleep, she could always escape. It struck her that in ten days’ time, after they moved in together, that would no longer be an option.
    Pulling on a dressing gown, she padded into the kitchen where she found Ben, bleary-eyed, a half-eaten kebab in front of him on the table, his mobile clamped to his ear. He looked up, and waved his free hand at the phone, his face telegraphing comic apology.
    ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘Great to see you, too. Remember what I said, alright? Yeah, mate, definitely.’
    She checked the clock – it was 2.30 a.m.
    Ben hung up. ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ he said, his words indistinct. ‘That was Jamie, checking I got home.’
    ‘Do you know what time it is?’
    With the literalness of the very drunk, he squinted down at his phone. ‘Two thirty-three,’ he said.
    ‘Did it slip your mind that I’m on earlies this week?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get up in three hours’ time.’
    ‘I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow, too,’ said Ben, an aggrieved expression on his face.
    Kershaw snapped. ‘And if you want to get shit-faced on a school night, that’s up to you! But you’ve got no right to come back here crashing around and waking me up!’
    ‘Fine! If you don’t want me here, I’ll go!’ Ben got to his feet, swaying. They stared at each other for a long and terrible moment.
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said finally. ‘I never said I wanted you to go.’
    When the alarm started nagging her at half past five it was still dark outside, and properly chilly in the flat – she’d forgotten to reset the central heating timer. Kershaw hated being on early turn at this time of year – the cold she could tolerate, but the shortening of the days as autumn tumbled into winter stirred in her a near-primitive sense of dread.
    She made a mug of tea and took it into the bedroom.
    ‘Ben?’ A muted groan came from under the duvet. ‘You said to wake you before I leave.’
    Ben pulled the duvet from his face and blinked a few times. ‘Morning,’ he croaked. Manoeuvring himself to a sitting position, he pulled a penitent face. ‘I’m really sorry I woke you up last night. Twattish behaviour when you’re on earlies, I know.’
    Kershaw smiled. It was one of the things she loved about Ben: when he was in the wrong about something, he apologised quickly and with real class. It was a quality she had never really mastered
.
    ‘You’re forgiven,’ she said, handing him his tea.
    ‘Are we good?’ he asked, throwing her a look under his eyebrows.
    ‘Yeah, we’re good,’ she told him. ‘So, you never said, how was Jamie last night?’
    ‘
Not
good.’ A spasm of distress crossed his face. ‘He’s full of anger, still guilt-ridden for letting Hannah out of his sight – and drowning it all in beer and Jameson’s. He says she’s totally changed – despite the Downs she used to be a confident kid, always nagging him and Cath to let her do the