Murder Game

by Emmy Ellis

  Nora winced, wishing he’d just take a running jump of the fucking cliff so she could live in peace. He didn’t, more was the pity. He remained by her side, steering her forward at a brisk pace.

  “Look at them, Nora, running off ahead. I’ll give them a good talking to when we catch them up. They need to learn to do as they’re told. Didn’t you say for them not to go off? You did. I heard you. And I said the same. They ignored me. Time to make a stand, to let them know who’s boss.”

  Nora felt sick. His idea of a good talking to meant smacked bums, tear-stained faces, and pitiful whimpers coming out of the boys.

  “It’s okay, I’ll deal with them.” She’d nearly called him Dickhead.

  “No, you won’t.” He gripped her harder. “Your brand of admonishment clearly isn’t working.”

  He shunted her roughly along the cliff top, so quickly she faltered, a pebble hidden in the grass sneaking between her flip-flop and her foot. She cried out, pain infusing her sole, then clamped her lips together so she couldn’t make any more noise.

  “People are looking, you stupid cow,” he said.

  She shook the stone loose, wanting to shake off his evil hand instead but not daring to. Him touching her was revolting. She inwardly shuddered, thinking how she could diffuse the potential situation ahead once they caught up with the boys. They were so small. How could they defend themselves against such a nasty bastard? If she couldn’t…

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, “but there was a stone and I—”

  “Always an excuse with you, isn’t there. Get a fucking move on. Those brats are running now.”

  She ran too, zoning him out, wishing there was just her and the boys here—her and the boys at home too. Life was one hell of a rollercoaster, and she prayed for boredom, peace, and never worrying when the next strike or verbal battering was on the way. Her breaths gusted out, and she repeated a mantra in her head: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

  Luke glanced over his shoulder at them.

  “Wait!” his father shouted. “Wait right there, boy!”

  Luke veered to the right, still staring over his shoulder.

  “The cliff!” Nora screamed. “Don’t go near the edge of the cliff!” Her heart thundered far too fast, and she battled nausea and her body’s reluctance to make her move quicker.

  Luke halted, then walked closer to the edge. Adam followed, ever his shadow, and her two precious little angels held hands, feet so terribly near to that hideous drop.

  “Like I said, Nora, what the fuck do you want to be walking out here for?” Dickhead gave her another wicked dig with his fingers then let her go. He jogged to the boys, stopping about a metre behind them.

  They faced the sea, those lads, turning only when he barked at them to do so.

  “Just do what Daddy says,” she called. “That’s it, walk towards Daddy.”

  Obeying her, the children walked forward as Dickhead walked back, coaxing them with surprisingly gentle words. Tears misted her vision—relief, she guessed—and she lifted her hands to dash the wetness away.

  When she opened them again, Dickhead was gone.

  She panicked for a second, checking whether Luke and Adam were there. They were, holding hands, Luke looking as though he were about to be sick, Adam’s expression blank.

  “Come here,” she said, hunkering down, holding her arms out. Her children rushed into them. She glanced about, expecting their father to appear from behind her, all menacing, all ready to smack her babies and make them cry.

  “Daddy fell off,” Adam said. “Didn’t he, Luke.”

  Nora reared back so she could study them.

  Luke blinked.

  Adam nudged him in the ribs. “Didn’t he, Luke.”

  “Yes.” Luke’s cheeks whitened.

  “Oh, fuck,” Nora breathed. “Oh, my God…”

  Euphoria filled her. Depraved, she knew, to be pleased. She battled with a smile, managing to keep it at bay. Her mind worked quickly, going through what she should be doing next. People were running towards her, shouting and some screaming, one woman hysterical that a man had gone over.

  “Are you all right?” a man asked, kneeling beside her. “We saw him there one minute, gone the next.”

  It was all too much for Nora. She wanted to laugh so hard. Bubbles of excitement roared through her body, so much so that she turned away from the man and threw up on the grass.

  Life would be so different now.

  Nora shook the memories from her mind. She didn’t enjoy thinking about him and what had happened. If it hadn’t been for the witnesses, she was sure she’d have been charged with pushing him off. After all, they’d had a volatile marriage, his systematic abuse catalogued on police record. It was obvious they’d think it was her. But everyone had said he’d leapt off, right in front of the boys, in front of her. She’d had to confess she hadn’t seen a thing, that her eyes had misted with tears—and had explained the reason for them. The boys had been interviewed by a special social worker trained to help them through trauma, and their family holiday for four had turned into one for three, except it hadn’t been a holiday anymore.

  She thought about her return to the street, how Sarah had waved from her window, knowing Dickhead wouldn’t want Nora waylaid on the path as soon as they’d arrived home. Sarah had frowned upon seeing Dickhead wasn’t there and came out, tilting her head in question.

  Once Nora had explained, Sarah had whispered, “Good. It saves me killing him myself…”

  Chapter Twelve

  This little piggy hurt Julia, this little piggy went mad, this little piggy was nosey, and the next little piggy is bad…

  I laugh quietly.

  I think I’m going as mad as Mo.

  * * * *

  Nora cleaned everywhere except the boys’ room—even the bathroom, which she only usually did once a week. You never knew, did you, whether the need to pee was going to get you, and she reckoned the police pissed as much as the next person.

  It was noon by the time she finished. Her hands stank of bleach, and her skin was shrivelled on her fingertips from so much dipping them in water. She looked around, pleased that her house was nothing like it had been in the old days. She’d slowly replaced all the furniture from her marriage, visiting thrift stores—one sold all manner of good furniture—and once, getting a grant from some poor people’s place that allowed her to shop for goods in Argos. She’d hated the handout, but it had been necessary if she were to rid herself and the boys of memories from the past. And she had been poor, no denying it, although she’d tried not to see herself as such. Pride. But the counsellor had said her children needed a clean slate, and that’s what she’d promised to give them.

  Never again had they had a hand raised to them. Never again had they heard a harsh word from a parent. And they wouldn’t in the future, not if she had anything to do with it.

  The doorknocker tapped, the rap of it tinny, echoic. Her stomach rolled over, leaving behind a griping pain that snaked up her windpipe and left her breathless. She straightened her fitted T-shirt, conscious that her ever-present roll of fat slouched over the waistband of her too-tight jeans. Maybe one day she’d diet, but really, what was the point? There was no one to look good for—no one she wanted to look good for—except herself, as all the women’s magazines spouted.

  She swung the front door open, and even though she’d been expecting the police, they still gave her a fright when she saw them standing side by side on her path. She was already familiar with these two. Age had done a number, stealing smooth skin and replacing it with wrinkles, but other than that they were just the same.

  Heat warmed her cheeks, and she forced her hands to remain by her sides. No, she wouldn’t lift them to where… No, she wouldn’t do that.

  “Long time no see, Mrs Pritchard,” Constable Fitzsimmons said.

  He smiled, and she couldn’t work out whether it was genuine or not. His black hair was greying at the temples, peeking from below his hat, inch
-wide strips of sideburn that ended at his jawline.

  “Yes,” Nora said, wondering how she should play this since Sarah had warned her they’d be coming.

  “May we come in a moment?” Constable Dalter asked.

  She stepped back to allow them entry. “I know it’s not about my boys because they’re upstairs.”

  She had to think about that for a second or ten, though. All had been quiet up there, but it didn’t mean they were in or out. They should be at school and uni, but some days they skipped—something she’d tried to stop. They played their games well into the night sometimes, sleeping through the day to catch up. But what if one of them had gone out while she’d had the vacuum on and she hadn’t heard them? What if the police weren’t here about Ted Gancy at all and Luke or Adam had been hurt? What if they were here because—

  “Let me just check,” she said, turning to pelt up the stairs.

  “No need, Mrs Pritchard,” Fitzsimmons said. “It’s not about them—unless you know something we don’t?” He jerked his head at her living room door. “Shall we go in there?”

  What’s he getting at?

  She nodded, heart thumping like crazy at the fright she’d given herself. Once the police had gone she’d check upstairs, anyway, and if they weren’t in she’d ring the school about Luke and phone Adam’s mobile. Otherwise she’d worry herself stupid that her boys were in danger. She had to stop that behaviour—too often she thought up scenarios of how they could be taken from her: knocked over by a car or bus, falling down that stupid ditch in the woods, playing about on the disused water tower there, or worse, kidnap—which brought Ted back to mind.

  “Do you want tea?” she asked, walking towards the kitchen door at the far end of the living room. “We can talk out there then.”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” Fitzsimmons said.

  In the kitchen, Nora prepared the tea while the officers sat at her little table. She had her back to them, which made her feel less threatened, and waited for them to speak.

  “How is everything?” Dalter asked.

  She didn’t dare turn around. Her feelings might be displayed on her face. “Oh, you know, bumbling along. As you do.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “Managed to move on with someone new yet?”

  She laughed, a stupid throaty sound that got on her nerves. “No. The only men I want in my life are my boys.”

  “Shame that,” Fitzsimmons said.

  Had she detected a smile in his voice then? She finished making the tea and carried theirs over to the table, catching a quick glimpse of the men in turn to see if she could sense whether they were taking the piss out of her, whether they had some private joke about a ratty little fatty who hadn’t had sex since her husband had killed himself as his single means of escaping her.

  Both faces were suitably expressionless.

  She sat with them. “Not a shame, no. I like being by myself.”

  “Don’t you get a bit lonely?” Fitzsimmons blew on his tea then sipped it.

  “No. I keep myself fairly busy.” Why are they asking me this? Sarah said their visit would be about Ted…

  “Lovely tea, this,” Fitzsimmons said. “Anyway. There’s been a bit of bother and we wanted to see if you’d spotted anything—hence me asking if you got lonely. You know, looking out of the window to pass the time, taking note of odd noises in the area, people doing things they shouldn’t, that kind of thing.”

  “What you mean is,” she said then smiled, “is whether I’m that bored I’ve turned into a nosey neighbour.” She waited for their responding chuckles. “And the answer is no, I haven’t. Too busy. I work shifts at the little Tesco. Why?”

  Please don’t tell me the boys have been fucking about while I’ve been at work.

  “This house,” Dalter said, standing to walk over to the back door and peer through the glass. “Yes, a clear view from upstairs, I’d imagine, of the lane that runs behind those five houses there.”

  “Yes, I can see right up to the other end of it, but I don’t tend to look out there much these days.” She lifted her cup to her lips, paused to steady her hand—God, the police freaked her the hell out—then drank a mouthful.

  “Ah, see, that’s what I wanted to ask, whether you looked out there.” Dalter turned his head to stare at the five houses. “And that’s where the fire was, isn’t it? The other night?”

  “Yes.” Nora fought back a frown. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re being a bit vague. Can you just say what you’re here for so I might help if I can?”

  Dalter returned to the table. “Ted Gancy. Know him well?”

  “Well enough to know he’s a gossiping old bugger. Why?”

  “Did you notice anyone in the lane last night? Mr Gancy or perhaps some teenagers?”

  “No.” She sipped again. “Is Ted all right?” She felt she had to ask.

  “Uh, hopefully. We have reason to believe he was abducted from outside the post box last night.” Dalter drank deeply.

  “Ted?” She glanced from one officer to the other. “From the post box? I don’t want to sound horrible or anything, but why would anyone want to take him?” She knew the answer to that but didn’t think the policemen would appreciate her revealing it.

  “That’s what’s concerning us.” Fitzsimmons went to the back door. “Do you mind if I go out into your garden?”

  Nerves fluttered in Nora’s chest. “Of course not, but I really don’t see why you’d need to.”

  He opened the door then stepped outside. Nora watched him inspect the grass then walk to the fence at the bottom. He stood on tiptoes, only just managing to peer over.

  “This gate,” he called, opening it. “Used much, is it?”

  Nora stood, her legs shaky. Was he implying something?

  “It’s just that there’s a lot of muddy footprints in the alley out here.” Fitzsimmons turned his head from left to right.

  An abrupt frown hurt Nora’s brow. Her pulse thudded, cruel and hard.

  “Dirty footprints,” he repeated. “Do you find your lads tracking mud inside?”

  She didn’t have to think about that. “No.”

  “Good boys, then, taking their shoes off before going indoors?” Dalter said behind her.

  She jumped, feeling trapped between them, cornered in her own home. “I’ve tried to bring them up as best I can since…well, you know.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Fitzsimmons said, coming in and closing the door. “So you didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary last night, like a car speeding off?”

  “No.” Nora, self-conscious beneath his stare, raised her hand to run her fingertips over the tops of her cheeks before she could stop herself.

  “Healed nicely, those,” he said, gesturing to her face.

  The scars were only slightly raised now, not a patch on what they’d been before when…when Derek had flung himself on top of her one night, pinning her on the bed so her face squashed into the pillows and her reading glasses had cracked, the shards of her lenses sinking into her skin.

  “Yes,” she said, hating to be reminded of them. It had taken a lot of courage to go down the contact lens route, and now all she wanted to do was put on her spare, thick-framed glasses so the bottom of them disguised the mess—albeit faint, so Sarah had assured her—on her cheeks.

  They weren’t faint to Nora. They were as prominent as the night she’d stared into the mirror after Derek had fucked her with the glass still in her face.

  “Well, we’d better be off,” Dalter said, smiling. “Thanks for your time, and if you remember anything… And it might be as well to check with your lads if they heard something.”

  “I doubt they would have. They play Xbox with headphones on. They don’t even hear me calling them for dinner.”

  “Ah, well. Given the way they are with policemen—or how they were back then, anyway—I don’t want to bother them now; shouldn’t they be in school? Don’t want them being unsettled, and if they’re always on
those games… Got a son of my own who does the same thing, so I know where you’re coming from. You ask them, that’d be best.”

  Nora followed them through to the hallway, the three of them in such a small space bringing on claustrophobia. The urge to rip her face off took a hefty grip. Seeing these men had brought things back that she thought she’d buried long ago, and the insinuation that maybe she or her boys had been back and forth into the alley had set her nerves jangling.

  She closed the door on them and leaned against the wall, seeing their murky dark shapes as they walked down her path then up Sarah’s. The clatter of Sarah’s knocker being used jolted Nora into action, and she checked the back garden to see just what Fitzsimmons had been on about. Yes, there were muddy footprints in the alley, but that didn’t mean anything. People had the right to use their back gates, didn’t they?

  A chill seeped into her body, so she locked up then climbed the stairs. She knocked on the boys’ door, waited a few beats, and entered. The room was gloomy, and after the fresh odour in the rest of the house, smelled of unwashed bodies and sweaty armpits. Cloying.

  She swallowed back a heave.

  Once she’d questioned her sons, then berated them for skipping class, she returned downstairs, satisfied they had nothing to do with going out in cars and stealing things from post boxes. They’d shown her their information log during play last night. Both had been online. Both had been playing something named after a fish. Cod, was it? Neither of them had been in the alley lately.

  She staggered to the sofa, caught off-guard by the sudden need to be sick.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sarah Blessing had got dressed. She’d also showered and resembled what Nora would call a normal person. Opening her door, she smiled at the policemen and immediately asked them to come in. There was no point beating about the bush, tarrying on her doorstep and wasting time. Already she was an hour behind on her work, and she had a quota to fill, which meant, if she had any more interruptions today, she’d be bloody working well into this evening.