Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  ‘I have an early start in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’m anxious to get to my bed.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ Mrs Claxton said, getting to her feet and sounding a little put out.

  She looked about for somewhere to put her mug, suddenly deciding she wasn’t going to wash it. She nearly dropped it when she heard what Beck said next.

  ‘Want to come with me? To bed, that is.’

  Forty-Two

  It was during the early hours of the morning when Beck awoke. It was still very dark. He was not completely sober. Mrs Claxton lay beside him. He couldn’t be certain she was sleeping; the sound of her breathing was gentle but erratic. He thought of the bottle of Spanish brandy he had drunk, remembered everything up to the point when he had finished it and asked her to come to bed with him.

  ‘Are you awake?’ The voice so soft he wondered if someone had really spoken at all.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing happened, between us I mean, we just slept,’ she said, the words spoken quickly as if anxious for him to understand.

  How did she assume he didn’t know that already? Not that he did, because he didn’t. He thought of her husband, and he thought of another drink. He also thought of the train he had to catch later.

  He turned on the bedside light, pulling back a corner of the duvet. He checked the time – 4.15 a.m. – went to the toilet, stood over the bowl and released a long stream of Spanish-brandy-infused piss. He didn’t feel so bad, because he knew he wasn’t fully sober. He ran the cold water tap and drank greedily, took a capful of mouthwash, swished it around and spat it out.

  He went back to bed. He took it as a signal that Mrs Claxton was still there, that she hadn’t left. If she had wanted to, she’d had ample opportunity to do so. For some reason, she had chosen not to. His post-alcohol erection quivered as he placed a hand on her fleshy thigh, gave it a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Your hand is cold,’ she said. She didn’t push it away. He took this as a signal too and pulled her to him.

  Their love-making was short and hurried, completed quickly lest either of them changed their mind. And afterwards, lying together, her arm draped across his chest, she wanted to talk, wanted to find out about him on the inside, now that she had explored his body on the outside.

  He tried to linger in his consciousness, fighting to stay awake. But his words slowed and slurred as he slipped into sleep, barely noticing as she sighed, withdrew her arm and left the bed. And then Beck fell into that great warm, black void of nothingness.

  Forty-Three

  History was like that. Neither dead nor alive. Like the Coliseum. Or the Great Wall of China. Or Stonehenge. The list went on. All of those existed, you could touch them, you could feel them. But all of those were dead. So, too, were the great civilisations. Those were all dead. But, at the same time, they lived. They lived because everything came from something, everything existed because of something else that had gone before it.

  Many disagreed with this thesis. Something had to be either dead or alive, they said. There was no in between. It had to be one thing or the other. It was not possible for something to be both.

  They just didn’t get it. They had no insight. How could they think like that?

  He had seen it himself. He had killed. And the urge to kill again was now greater than ever.

  But there was something else. And it was this. He wanted recognition, some recognition, at least… No, not some, more than some. He wanted them to know, to know about him. He really, really wanted that. Was it too much to ask? Damn it, he deserved that much, didn’t he? He had waited so long. Well? Hadn’t he?

  He caressed the knife in his pocket. He was looking forward to using this. He kept it for special occasions. Because she was different. The she-devil’s memory was burned into his psyche. After all, it was she who had helped make him who, and what, he was. She was old now, and his only surprise was that she still lived. Which pleased him. Because it meant he would be the one to take her life away. There was an intimacy in that.

  He passed through the town as a shadow, flittering from street to street, from alleyway to alleyway. It wasn’t quite night. Lights glowed behind many of the windows he passed. But it wasn’t day either. It was in between. That mysterious chasm. Between darkness and light. Between life and death. The lights glistened on the wet surfaces, the streets, the roads, the buildings. Voices and footsteps crackled through the silence, both fading, lost to the night. He felt a power. An exhilarating power. He could determine life and death. Within the furnace, down deep, where the embers glowed fiercest, his hatred burned. For her. Because she once had the power. To decide. What was in his ‘best interests’. But how did she know? Taking his mother from him like that. Was that in his ‘best interests’? No, was the answer. No, it fucking wasn’t. He knew his hatred was incapable of giving him reason. But he didn’t want reason. He wanted revenge.

  He found the stone without difficulty. It was set in the gravel by the edge of the garden path. Underneath it, the spare key. He knew all her little secrets. The nearest light was from a lamp post on the narrow pavement, but at this distance it was only a glimmer, and he felt safe as he walked along the path to the front porch. He slipped the key into the door lock and gently twisted it, could feel the bolt sliding back. He pushed the door and it opened without a sound. He would expect nothing less from her; everything would work as it should do.

  It was dark – he had to fumble his way ahead. There was no window in the front door and none along the hall. He took out the knife from his pocket, withdrew it from its sheath.

  He was at the stairs now. He could feel the outline of the banister. And ahead, above him, a brushstroke of dim white light. Yes, she was old now, and would have to get up during the night to piss. The light would be left on so she could see her way to the bathroom.

  He placed his hand on the handle of the first door, turned it.

  He could see the bed, the outline in its centre that had to be the sleeping body of her. The mound in the centre of the bed was stirring now. Something else stirred, moving from the bed, at great speed, small and black and noisy. Heading right for him. And almost simultaneously he felt it, just above the ankle of his right leg, the sudden sharp pain. He looked down. The little bastard had sunk its teeth into his leg. He grimaced with the pain but kept his mouth shut. The useless, slobbering creature. He’d never thought it capable of this.

  A shrill voice now, brittle and cutting, drowning out everything: ‘Who’s that? Who’s there? My God! Who are you? I said who are you? What are you doing here? You! Is that you? Oh my God. It is you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello. You do remember me? I mean, really remember me? You don’t, do you?’

  ‘Boys like you are cowards at heart, aren’t they?’

  As if it was yesterday, but so long ago.

  He raised his other foot, crashed it down onto the head of the dog. It didn’t even cry out in pain. ‘It would be nothing if you didn’t. Talk to me. How are you?’

  Eeny meeny miny moe, tittle tattle tock, I’m crazy and you don’t know. Tittle tattle tock. Eeny meeny miny moe, tittle tattle tock, I’m crazy and you don’t know. Tittle tattle tock...

  And then the dam wall was breached and the water surged through as he raised his right foot again and brought his boot down onto the dog’s back this time. It smashed like a wrecking ball into bone and sinew, disintegrating the tiny ribcage beneath, squashing internal organs like soft fruit. The dog released its grip on his leg with a short, soft whimper, and the animal became quiet and immediately dead. He looked down, could see the dog’s head loll to one side, its pink little tongue protruding between two rows of gritted teeth.

  A strange rasping sound came from her now. He took a step towards her, and the rasping sound became a wail; another step and the wail became a scream, and by the time he had crossed the few feet to her, she was screaming hysterically. The first stab wound silenced her, because the blade went t
hrough her throat and out the back of her neck. He stared at her, watching as her hands reached out to him, feebly clawing at the air. He touched the blood leaking out from around the blade with a finger and brought it to his nose, sniffed it, then pulled the knife from her neck and it came out with a loud popping sound like a finger plucked against a cheek inside a person’s mouth. A geyser of blood erupted and splashed onto his clothes. He laughed, looking at it as he stabbed her again, and again, and again, and again. He continued to stab her long after she was dead.

  Forty-Four

  Later, when he awoke for a second time, his first thought was that, despite his belief that he did not dream when he’d been drinking, he had after all been doing so. Because the tail end of something, an image that he couldn’t define, slithered quickly across his mind and was gone. He lay there, wondering what it was, then attempted to judge the time by the amount of light filtering through the curtains. He guessed maybe eight o’clock. Either way, the train was long gone.

  As he considered this, fear began to set in; he could feel it coiling around his lungs, pushing out his breath in short gasps. He sat up, opened the bedside locker drawer, took out the plastic bottle, used his teeth to unscrew it and popped two pills into his mouth. He lay down again and waited.

  So, he had fucked up again. And he had no one to blame but himself.

  If the phone had rung a moment earlier, he would have ignored it. But it didn’t, it rang now. He glanced at the screen. Garda HQ. He took a deep breath, and for some reason, although he hadn’t quite willed it, his hand reached out and picked it up.

  Maria Mulcahy asked, ‘Are you on the train?’

  Beck processed this question and was confused. ‘Um…’ he began, but didn’t progress any further.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Beck, but the Assistant Commissioner has had to cancel the meeting. He would like to apologise for not being in a position to have given you more notice.’

  ‘Cancel the meeting, did you say?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. I know this is very inconvenient for you. It’s been rescheduled for tomorrow morning… By the way, where are you? You must almost be in Dublin by now.’

  Beck looked at his watch for the first time. The time was 8.40 a.m. He’d been close.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he lied. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Your expenses will be covered, of course.’ Her tone was sympathetic. ‘Perhaps you could make a day of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beck said. ‘I don’t think I have much choice now. And tomorrow, will it be the same time? It’s Saturday, by the way.’

  ‘Yes. I know. That’s not a problem, is it, being a Saturday?’

  ‘No, no problem. It’s just senior management don’t usually work on a Saturday, that’s all.’

  ‘I see. In any case, the Assistant Commissioner says 10 a.m. will be fine. Again, he sends his sincerest apologies.’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ Beck said, feigning annoyance and terminating the call.

  He looked at the phone, turned it over in his hand. Had this really happened? He checked the call log to convince himself that it really had. What now? he wondered. Take the rest of the day off, remain hidden in the house, alone with his thoughts?

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ he said aloud and laughed, throwing back the duvet and placing his feet on the cold floor. He went into the bathroom, stepped into the shower and turned the water regulator all the way into the blue zone.

  Forty-Five

  At one time, businesses would shut their doors on the approach of a funeral cortège, and would not open them again until it had passed, well passed. This tradition had all but disappeared now. But today was different. Today Tanya Frazzali was being buried. Beck had almost forgotten. Passing the closed shop doors now, he was reminded.

  The recent rain had left the world sodden. The wind was blowing hard, and the dark clouds pushed across the sky like ocean swells. Beck buried his hands in his pockets and put his head down against the wind.

  He turned onto Edmund Street, red-brick cottages lining either side. The cottages had been built by Edmund Kendrel, a substantial landlord, who had hoped to attract Italian craftsmen to his new enterprise of making riding boots from the hides of native Dexter cows, and which he hoped to export throughout the empire. He was a benevolent landlord, something evident in the fact that the street named after him continued to bear his name following the end of British rule and the creation of the Republic. Unfortunately, Edmund Kendrel had died before he could realise his vision, and his son Louis showed only as much interest as was required to sell off the estate piece by piece to pay for his mounting gambling debts. It dwindled from 7,300 acres to nothing in less than three years.

  Beck reached the top of Edmund Street and came onto Bridge Walk. To his right he could see the first bridge, and a hearse with wreaths piled high on its roof, slowly moving across on its way to the cathedral, led by a garda motorcycle outrider. There were hundreds of children following, most dressed in the uniform of St Malachi’s College. The sounds of their footsteps were carried on the wind like an irregular drumbeat. Beck crossed the road and stood by the river wall. He could see the funeral cortège trailing its way back to Bridge Street. The river swirled with quick currents, the crusts of yellow foam on top moving past, giving Beck an indication of the water’s speed.

  He walked on, slowly. At the bridge he stopped and blessed himself, stood with his hands clasped before him. Led by Father Clifford, the mourners walked past, silent and sombre. It was the biggest funeral Cross Beg had seen in years. He was about to cross the road in the other direction and take a different route back to the station when he saw Blake walking at the centre of the mourners. Looking at him now Beck realised how tall and powerfully built the pharmacist was; he towered over those around him by a good foot. Their eyes met. Both men stared at one another. And then, as Beck watched, Blake did something Beck did not expect. Blake smiled, a lopsided smile, a cold smile, a smile of someone in an interview room who slouches back into their seat, whose hands hang loose by their sides, whose expression says ‘prove it’. That smile.

  Beck could hear the wind and feel it on his face and he could hear the sounds of those footsteps like drums, fading now as they passed and the cortège of cars following arrived at the bridge. And Beck looked back at the last of the walking mourners and ahead again to Norman Blake in the middle. He could not rid himself of the image of that strange, lopsided smile.

  Forty-Six

  Debra Anne at DNA testing in Garda HQ had spent much time extracting samples from the preserved gall bladder tissue forwarded by… well, she wasn’t quite sure who. The signature was practically illegible. A stickler as ever, she matched the reference numbers and discovered the sample had been forwarded by the state pathologist’s office. Debra Anne was concerned because the sample displayed signs of degradation, and worried too that she may not be able to extract DNA. However, she diligently persevered and successfully extracted a segment. Next, she spent time amplifying the sample. Finally, when this was done, she was in a position to make comparisons. She tested more than one genetic marker from the fluid and hair samples taken from the young female murder victim in Cross Beg, because she needed to be certain, as certain as could be. And there was no doubt – well, there was always doubt, but it was less than 0.01 per cent. Both samples were from the same person. Next, when she compared the samples against the DNA extracted from the gall bladder tissue, again there was little doubt. Specifically, again, 0.01 per cent. Which meant that the certainty was 99.9 per cent. Whichever way you chose to look at it, the person whose gall bladder it was, was the person who had been with Tanya Frazzali.

  And finally, Debra Anne did something else. She picked up the phone.

  Forty-Seven

  Claire looked at Beck in surprise from behind her desk when he entered the Ops Room. He crossed the room and told her the meeting in Dublin had been cancelled at the last minute, and muttered vaguely a lie about having to change trains and travel back to Cross Beg.


  ‘It was all a bloody inconvenience,’ he said.

  ‘But how did you get here so quickly? It’s just after ten o’clock.’

  ‘Developments?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  She looked at him.

  ‘Developments. In the case. I presume there was a briefing.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes, a very short one. The results of Ned’s autopsy.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Suicide,’ she said.

  Beck could see it now. An open investigation that was to all intents and purposes leading to an unsolved closed one. As he feared would happen. Doctors might bury their mistakes, but investigators, when there was nothing else to go on, placed theirs onto indefinite life support. When questions were asked later, as they inevitably would be, the stock answer would be taken down and provided: ‘The investigation is still open and ongoing’. And in that statement, all bases were covered.

  ‘What about the CCTV? Weir?’

  ‘Tom? Yes, he’s narrowed it down to three cars. The partial regs are from a Toyota, a Ford and an Audi. The car on the CCTV looks like an Audi, that’s what he said. It drove along the road to Cool Wood but didn’t actually pass it until an hour and a half later. So it had to have pulled in somewhere first.’

  ‘I’d like to look at that CCTV. Maybe we could get it later today?’

  ‘You want me to ring him now?’