She couldn’t help it, flinched at his movement and stepped backwards towards the kitchen drawer where the knives were.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’
He was still walking as he talked, hands out in front of him.
She stepped back, phone still in her hand, Hannah’s message glowing at her, breaking her heart, breaking her connection with Craig, although that would never really be broken, not even by this. That was the worst thing, she would still be tied to him after this was over.
‘It’s not what it seems like,’ Craig said, as if he’d been caught flirting with a waitress. ‘You don’t know what happened.’
She made a grab for the drawer but Craig was on her, fist into her stomach making her double over breathless, trying to suck in air, as he took the phone from her and grabbed her by the hair, yanking downwards, making her lose balance and stagger so that she fell into the corner of the kitchen table, which jabbed at her temple, pain rushing through her like a drug. She blinked and tried to stand up, heard the drawer open, the rattle of cutlery, then she was pulled into the seat and felt the knife against her throat, the point pushing into the skin, taut as she angled her head away.
He stared at her with a look of infinite sorrow, his eyes wet with tears as if this was all deeply upsetting for him. He glanced at the phone screen and shook his head.
‘I never wanted this,’ he said softly. ‘I never meant for any of it to happen, you have to understand.’
‘Craig,’ Jenny said, feeling the pulse in her neck against the knife blade, her blood begging to be let out.
He pulled a seat over and sat next to her, leaning in, the knife never leaving her throat. ‘Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.’
As if this was a marital tiff, an argument about taking the bins out or drinking too much at a party.
He shook his head and looked at the whiteboard, the picture of Mel up there surrounded by men.
‘You know me,’ he said. ‘You know I’m weak.’
Jenny swallowed. ‘This isn’t weak, it’s evil.’
‘I’m not evil.’
‘You killed someone. She was pregnant.’
Tears were on his cheeks, dripping onto the kitchen table.
‘It’s like she put a spell on me,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I was sick with her, diseased. She was so full of life.’
Jenny thought about slapping the knife away from her neck. ‘You’re just another pathetic old man fucking young girls. It’s the oldest story in the world.’
Craig didn’t seem to be listening. ‘She was there when I popped round to see Hannah one time. Hannah wasn’t in but we got chatting. She actually saw me as a man, you know? Not a dad or a husband or a sad old loser. I felt invisible before I met her, do you know what that’s like?’
‘Every middle-aged woman on the planet knows what that’s like.’
Craig shook his head. ‘I’m not a bad man.’
Jenny couldn’t believe his bullshit. ‘You killed her.’ She leaned forwards, not caring about the knife, feeling it stretch her skin. ‘Your daughter’s best friend. She was carrying your baby.’
‘It was just supposed to be fun,’ Craig said under his breath. ‘Nothing serious. But she got clingy. Wanted to tell Hannah about us, but I talked her out of it. Wanted me to leave Fiona.’
His hand was shaking, the knife with it. The tip gently pierced Jenny’s skin and she felt a prick of pain, blood dripping down her neck.
Craig hadn’t noticed. ‘Then with the baby, she went crazy when I suggested getting rid of it, said she was going to tell everyone what kind of man I was. She had her phone out, was calling Fiona to tell her. I couldn’t let her ruin everything.’
‘I can’t believe you’re making excuses.’
He gave her a resigned look like he had no control over his actions. ‘If I had more courage, I would kill myself. I’ve thought about it. A bottle of whisky and some pills in the bath. But I’m not brave enough, I’m not strong enough.’
A noise in the doorway made them both turn. It was Schrödinger coming in without a glance in their direction, heading for the chair by the window. While Craig’s head was turned Jenny raised her hand and swept the knife from her neck, the knife clattering on the floorboards and making the cat jump. Jenny rose from her chair as Craig turned to her, and threw her fist as hard as she could into the side of his head, connecting with the temple, feeling her knuckle crack with the impact. His neck snapped back and he almost toppled from his seat as Jenny’s chair scraped the floor. She was up and sliding past him towards the door, Schrödinger looking at them now, then she was beyond him as Craig swore and held his face. A couple more steps and she was at the doorway, then she felt him grab her hair and yank her off her feet, some of her hair ripping out at the root. She landed on her hip with a thud and was dragged backwards, rucking up the rug underneath her, splinters from the floorboards pricking her hip where her skin was exposed.
She swung her hands above her head, scratching at Craig’s fist in her hair, heard him breathing heavily then the cat hissing. She looked over to see Schrödinger with his back arched, tail high. Then she felt a kick to her lower back, kidneys screaming, then another and another, so she lowered her hands and tried to protect herself. Craig pulled her head down and it thumped against the floor sending sparks across her vision, pain stripping her body. She felt her hair released and tried to push herself up, got as far as one elbow when Craig came round and swung his foot into her face, a red burning in her ear and a crack in her cheek as she fell onto the floor again. She could see dust bunnies and toast crumbs under the table, then she heard the knife being picked up from where it had landed by the window.
Schrödinger made a spitting noise and Jenny turned to see Craig’s foot connect with the cat’s midriff and lift him into the air, claws out, hammering against the glass of the window and bouncing onto the floor.
Craig stepped towards her with the knife held out, looking at it as if he had no idea what to do with it, like it was an alien artefact.
‘Wait,’ Jenny said, holding her hand up. Her body and face ached, pain soared through her, and she had a brief thought that this would destroy Hannah most of all.
‘No,’ Craig said, hunkering down and staring into her eyes.
He looked at her with something like love then slid the knife into her stomach and held it there.
59
DOROTHY
Dorothy’s phone started ringing as Archie turned the van into Duddingston Low Road. The two of them had been silent since they filled in the grave.
She looked at her phone: Hannah. She looked at the clock on the dashboard, quarter past three. The purple tracers of dawn laced the sky behind them as they drove west.
She answered.
‘It’s Dad,’ Hannah said. She was out of breath, her voice shaky. Dorothy felt the connection to her granddaughter through the phone pressed to her ear, a thread linking them.
‘What?’
‘He was sleeping with Mel.’
Dorothy removed the phone from her ear and stared at the screen, the timer counting the seconds they’d been connected, Hannah’s name on the screen. She stared at Archie, who glanced across then back at the road.
‘Are you sure?’ she said.
‘I can’t handle this,’ Hannah said.
‘Have you spoken to your mum?’
Hannah sniffed down the line, a rumble and rattle in the background. ‘I’ve left a million messages, she’s not answering.’
The van swung round Arthur’s Seat, past the Commie Pool, heading into Newington. Zero traffic this time of night, all the lights going their way. It felt like they were drifting through deep space.
‘Where are you?’
‘In a taxi to yours.’
‘We’re heading there now.’
‘Where have you been?’ Hannah said.
Dorothy looked at Archie then out at Grange Road as they drove along it.
�
�Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Have you told the police?’
‘I woke Thomas up. He’s sending two officers to Dad’s house…’
She broke off, crying.
‘Hannah, listen,’ Dorothy said.
‘I keep telling myself there’s a mistake. This can’t be it.’
‘How do you know about them?’
‘A receipt. The hotel barman saw them together. They had a room booked. Gran, I feel sick.’
Dorothy breathed as Archie frowned at her. The car went across Whitehouse Loan, another green light like they were blessed.
‘You need to stay calm,’ Dorothy said.
‘I can’t breathe.’
‘Where are you now?’
A pause as the thrum of the taxi leaked down the line. ‘Just coming to the Meadows, not far.’
‘OK, we’re almost home,’ Dorothy said. ‘We can sit down and talk about it.’
‘Gran, I’m so scared. If he…’
Archie drove the last part of Greenhill Gardens then pulled into the drive and switched the engine off.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ Dorothy said.
She knew it wasn’t going to be all right.
She looked up at the house and saw the kitchen light left on.
Hannah hung up and Dorothy opened the van door. The movement made her shoulder burn with pain, she was aching from her earlier exertions, needed time to recover. Time to digest what Archie told her and think about what to do. And now here was this awful new thing landing in their laps.
The holdall with the shovels and torches was still in the back of the van. Archie opened his door and Dorothy touched his arm.
‘Leave that stuff until tomorrow,’ she said.
Archie hadn’t said a word, not as they filled in the grave, not as they trekked to the van, over the wall at the back of the graveyard, not as they drove over here.
‘Go home,’ Dorothy said. ‘We both need rest.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Archie said, head down as he closed his door.
‘I know.’
A long silence. ‘Should I come into work tomorrow?’
Dorothy was still touching his arm, felt the warmth of his skin. ‘Of course, where else would you go?’
Archie shrugged, a tiny movement. ‘I thought you might want me to go to the police. Or at least, you might not want me here.’
Dorothy took her hand away. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’
He hesitated. ‘Is everything all right with Hannah? She sounded upset.’
Dorothy shook her head.
‘Do you want me to hang around?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You don’t deserve any of this, Dorothy. You’re a good woman. You take on others’ troubles, that can get to you.’
‘I’m OK. Or I will be once I have a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Take care,’ Archie said.
Dorothy eased out of the van feeling every muscle cry out. She closed the door and watched as Archie started the van, turned and left. There was no sign of Hannah’s taxi yet. Two weeks ago Dorothy would’ve said Craig wasn’t capable of this. But since then she’d discovered Archie had killed a man who was raping a dead woman, her husband had helped him get rid of the body and covered it up, and predatory men were everywhere.
She knew she had to tell Jenny about Craig and that knowledge pushed down on her with intense force as she went in the front door and began trudging up the stairs, calves burning, hand squeezing the banister, dirt on her fingers, her mind full of dead bodies, heart full of sorrow.
She was halfway up the stairs when she heard footsteps, and remembered the light in the kitchen. She’d presumed Jenny left it on when she went to bed, but perhaps she’d woken in the night. Dorothy listened again but all was quiet.
She reached the top of the stairs and stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Jenny lay in the middle of the floor, blood pooling from her stomach and running along the grooves between floorboards, soaking into the rug and darkening the material. She had her eyes closed and a knife handle sticking out of her gut, the knife Dorothy used to slice pineapple.
Craig stood over her, breathing heavily, hands covered in blood, more red stains on his jeans and shirt. He wiped at his nose then turned to Dorothy. His eyes were wet, cheeks flushed like he’d been for a run. He held Dorothy’s gaze for a moment then looked at Jenny, then he ran towards Dorothy and grabbed her arms and tried to push past her. She stumbled into him, lifted her knee to his crotch and his head jolted downwards before coming back up. He heaved her over to the side and rammed her against the wall, smacking her skull on the whiteboard. She felt dizzy as he let go of her arms and put his hands around her throat, began to squeeze.
She struggled to breathe and squirmed to escape his grip but he was too strong. She tried the knee thing again but he was wise to it, standing to the side, and she connected with the outside of his thigh. She scratched at the wall behind her, praying for anything she could use to distract him, throw at him, pull off the wall to save herself. Nothing. His fingers squeezed her neck and her lungs burned. She scrabbled at his hands on her throat, felt herself growing faint, then remembered something. She felt into her cardigan pocket and placed her hand on the bone that she’d carried since Jim’s cremation. She pulled it out and made a fist, the point poking out from her tight knuckle. She pushed her fist with all her energy into the underside of Craig’s chin, feeling Jim’s bone go through the fleshy part of his mouth and tongue. He roared and let go of her throat.
She pulled the bone out and jammed it in again, same place. He gripped her arm and yanked it away, but she held on to the bone then forced it into his chest below the ribs, felt it run through flesh then muscle.
He tried to suck in air as he swung his fist into her face, knocking her to the ground. She still had hold of the bone in her hand, Craig’s blood soaking her fist, splashing from his chin and running from his chest. He looked at that wound, placed his hand over it, stumbled as if he might pass out, then righted himself. He pulled his vision into focus and stared down at Dorothy.
‘Dad?’
Dorothy heaved in a breath as she turned and saw Hannah standing at the door. She raised a hand, the one with the bone, and pointed it at Craig. She tried to focus but her vision was blurred, tears and pain. Craig was staring at Hannah and holding his chin and chest.
Craig and Hannah stood motionless as if this moment was trapped in time forever, father and daughter, injured women lying around them both in a tragic tableau.
Then Craig sparked to life. He ran at Hannah and knocked her out of the way as he stumbled through the door. Dorothy heard him clumping down the stairs, crashing into the banister with a crack.
Hannah righted herself and looked at the door, then back into the room.
‘Let him go,’ Dorothy said between breaths, her hand shaking at her raw neck.
Hannah looked at the doorway again.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
60
HANNAH
She followed him down the stairs, heard him clattering out of the front door then the crunch of his footsteps on gravel, uneven as he staggered forwards. She reached the front door as he disappeared into the street, heading right towards Bruntsfield Links. It was dark on the grass away from the lit pathways, maybe he thought he could disappear.
She ran after him, birds already chirping in the trees above. She turned the corner, went to the edge of the park and paused. The sky was glowing in the east above Arthur’s Seat. Straight ahead the castle was spotlit against the bruised sky. Sodium light spilled from the park’s paths, darkness over the grassy undulations in between.
Hannah looked for movement. He was injured and found out, the police would get him, he couldn’t escape. But that wasn’t enough for her.
Shadows twitched to her right over by James Gillespie’s. It was him, stumbling over the mounds, an animal desperate to escape. She ran towards him, jogging at first then picking up speed. He must�
�ve sensed something, heard her footfall, because he sped up, zigzagging to the left and down the hill, veering towards the road then away again.
She was gaining on him. Her feet solid beneath her, her gaze steady, like a lioness on the plains with a gazelle in her sights. He was clutching his ribs and chin. Hannah tried to remember what his injuries were, but it all happened so fast. There was a lot of blood, and she wondered whether she should go back and help Mum and Gran. But Gran was conscious, she could call an ambulance.
He picked up speed and staggered into the glare of a streetlight, then went across Whitehouse Loan, glancing round and seeing her. He ran into the larger part of Bruntsfield Links where the pitch and putt was. It was almost like he was running towards Hannah’s home. But he was just running away from everything he’d done, every lie he’d told, every action that hurt the ones he loved, if he ever loved anyone.
She ran faster, crossed the road, there was more light now, pre-dawn over Salisbury Crags and the glare of the city as they got closer to the clutter of the Old Town. He couldn’t escape and he must know that. He ran away from the golf holes and tried to go up the slope away from the main road but the incline made him lose his footing and fall.
Hannah was fifty yards away, would be on him in a few moments, as he lurched to his feet and took a few steps forwards. She remembered once seeing Schrödinger stalk a sparrow in the garden, when he broke cover and pelted for the bird it just sat there flapping one wing, the other broken, and the cat hesitated, unsure what to do with such an easy kill. Then he ripped its throat out.
‘Dad,’ she said between breaths.
He looked round, kept going forwards but his steps were pitiful, his hand at his chin black with blood dripping onto the grass.
She was twenty yards away.
He turned and looked at her, his body swaying like a skyscraper in an earthquake, and he stopped trying to run or even walk, just stood clutching his rib and his chin, staring at her.
‘Don’t,’ he said.
Hannah stopped a few yards away.
A Dark Matter Page 28