Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  He drove the Discovery straight through the automatic gates and they folded sideways as though like they were made from toilet rolls and crepe paper, and Eddie brought it to a halt outside the front doors just as the lounge light came on and the curtains were pulled back. And then he was out of the car and kicking the door until it crashed inwards.

  Across the courtyard, the front door of the staff house opened and a lad wearing dirty white trainers stood there for a moment before disappearing back inside. He returned with his handgun and walked across to the main house.

  Inside the house, Eddie began shouting, “Tyler Crosby!” He staggered down the hallway and was met at a door to his left by a big black man. Eddie stopped, swayed, and said, “Where’s Tyler Crosby?”

  From behind the black man, a voice said, “Bring him through, Monty.”

  Eddie looked up at the man called Monty, and tried to point a finger, “Is he in there?”

  Monty grabbed Eddie by the arms and dragged him through into the lounge. Eddie looked around at the curved leather suite, the huge wall-mounted TV, the projector hanging from the ceiling, the ornate and far too grand fire place with real plastic logs glowing in the grate. In the centre of the room, a circular glass coffee table.

  Spittle hung from Eddie’s mouth as he surveyed the two men sitting there. One was old, fat, and bearded: Slade Crosby, dressed in a shirt and slacks, and the other was Eddie’s age, jeans and T-shirt, blood across his face, nursing a drink: Tyler Crosby. A man walked into the room and closed the door. He stood in front of the silent TV, handgun sticking out of his black leather belt.

  In the kitchen beyond, and out of sight, there were other people, muffled voices, moving around. Considering it is gone three in morning, thought Eddie, this place was fucking alive.

  “Which one of you bastards is Tyler?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Slade looked at him; he didn’t seem particularly perturbed by Eddie’s presence, or the fact he’d ruined the posh gates and bust the lock on his front door. Slade looked preoccupied. Slade’s knuckles were smeared with blood.

  “Fuck me, it’s Grizzly Adams!” Eddie shook his arm free, smiled at the bearded old man and staggered around the coffee table towards Tyler. “I’m guessing you’re the twat that kills innocent women?”

  Tyler glanced at his father.

  Slade sneered then nodded at Monty. Monty took a step forward and said, “Gillon,” nodding at the kid with the white trainers. Gillon strode over to Eddie, stuck the gun in the back of his neck. Eddie froze, eyes wide. The spittle fell from his lips and he swallowed.

  “Boss?” Gillon said.

  Slade shook his head. “Not here.”

  “Why did you kill her, you dumb fuck? She didn’t kill your stinking piece of shit rapist bastard brother!”

  “I’ll ask again,” Slade said. “Who are you?”

  Eddie swayed as he turned to Slade, almost fell over and caught himself against the mantelpiece. “I’m the fella who rescued a young lass called Charlie. Charlie was hiding in her house, scared shitless because of him,” he nodded to Tyler. “I found her. I told her she’d be safe at my house—”

  “You!” Tyler spoke at last, an involuntary gasp of recognition.

  “Yeah, me, you prick. You broke into my house and killed her!”

  “She deserved—”

  Eddie half fell and half ran at Tyler, and as Tyler scrambled to his feet, Slade stepped sideways and threw a punch into Eddie’s stomach strong enough to throw him off balance and leave him writhing on the floor.

  Tyler seemed to gain confidence then, to become brave. He stepped forward and kicked Eddie in the ribs, before Slade slapped him. “Leave him,” Slade said. “He stinks like a fucking brewery, and you don’t get to do anything until I say so.” Slade nodded at Monty, “Drink, please.”

  Slade retook his seat, pointed at Tyler, “This!” he screamed, “this is what happens when you don’t do as I say!”

  “She was—”

  “Shut up!”

  Eddie coughed, and sat up, propping himself up with one hand while the other massaged his ribs, feeling inside his jacket for the pocket. He still swayed and tried to see past Tyler’s chair and out into the kitchen; he could see movement still, even caught sight of someone through the crack in the open door, but they were gone in an instant. Strange, but they looked familiar somehow.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Eddie was shocked at the question. In the motel with his feet on the bed, even while smashing his way through the front door here, he’d never thought they’d ask him outright; it just never occurred to him. What am I doing here? he thought. “I yam here to plant a bug on behalf of Wesh Yorshier Police Force.” He smiled, deadpan.

  Slade eventually chuckled. “Don’t piss me about, son; I’m not in the mood.”

  “I wanted to see the man who thought he was God.” He stared at Tyler. “You roll through life taking whatever you want, whenever you want. You never give any thought to the lives you ruin or take along the way, do you? You’re above all that. You’re above the law.” Eddie almost fell forward, but controlled it enough to stay upright.

  Tyler smiled at that.

  Monty handed the drink over then looked at Gillon, “Put it away.”

  “Don’t you care?” Eddie asked.

  Tyler shrugged, rubbed his lip.

  Eddie looked at Slade. “And you, don’t you care? Your son rapes her, and then this prick kills her. And she was innocent.”

  Slade smiled. “Casualty of war. I’ll send a wreath.”

  Eddie smiled in return, and that made Slade’s face straighten up pretty quickly.

  “So who did kill him, if it wasn’t this girl?”

  Eddie took a long slow blink, “I haven’t worked that bit out yet.”

  “I think we got it pretty much spot on,” Tyler said.

  “Shut up, boy!”

  “But I’d be happy to share it with you,” Eddie said, “if you’ll forget my little intrusion.”

  “I don’t need nothing from you, whoever you are.”

  Tyler laughed.

  Eddie looked at him, “And as for you, prick, I’m having you; I’ll make you into a casualty of war. I’ll make you shake like a shitting dog. I’ll make you terrified just like you made her terrified—”

  Monty leaned over, grabbed Eddie by the throat and lifted him into the standing position. Eddie clawed at the giant’s arms, eyes wide and frightened, bubbles of air grazing down his constricted throat, snot running out of his nose, face a bloated red. And just as he was about to black out, Monty took the pressure off and Eddie sank to his knees coughing and clutching his neck, a raspy noise coming from his throat as he breathed out, a squeaky noise as he breathed in. Tears blurred his vision, and he had a pressure inside his head that felt like his ears were going to pop.

  “After tonight, you’ll be in no position to make threats against my boy in my house. Now, I like to know the names of the people I kill. So what’s your name, you pisshead?”

  Eddie swooned, and the oxygen racing into his brain almost made him black out again, but the big guy had done him a favour, and he was now in the perfect position to see through into the kitchen. A face stared back at him. And when he recognised it, it disappeared again as though it knew it had been spotted. “I see you,” Eddie pointed and giggled.

  The kitchen door opened, and a blurred shape stood in the doorway. Eddie looked, and despite wiping his eyes, he couldn’t make out any distinguishing features. Until she spoke.

  “His name’s Eddie Collins. One of my forensic geeks. And until now, a reformed alcoholic.”

  Eddie furiously rubbed his eyes, and squinted at her. “Lisa?”

  “That’s why I don’t need nothing from you. See?”

  She shook her head at Eddie, as though he’d disappointed her. Slade lit a cigarette and tapped his shoe on the floor, as though the nerves were getting him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Eddie
tried to rationalise her presence; was she part of a sting, was she here under a warrant, searching the place? Each option came pre-stamped in big red letters: N O. “I don’t get it.”

  “I’m making corrections to your work,” she waved an evidence bag in front of him. He couldn’t see what it was, not from here, and so he tried to stand but just then, the kid with the gun stepped on his hand hard enough to make him hiss.

  “What? What do you mean ‘making corrections’?”

  Lisa Westmoreland turned around and walked back into the kitchen.

  “Hey, what do you mean?”

  Slade called, “Does he have friends?”

  From the kitchen, Lisa laughed. “He’s a loner. And a loser.”

  “Boss?”

  Slade looked at the kid who was standing on Eddie’s hand, and though Eddie couldn’t see the kid’s reaction to Slade’s shake of the head, he heard the gun being replaced for the second time. And then the penny dropped, and he understood why Lisa was here. No, that wasn’t quite right; he didn’t understand why she was here or what “corrections” she was making, but he did understand that she wasn’t too bothered about Eddie seeing her fraternising with the enemy. And that scared him.

  “So how come you went to such lengths to employ me then?”

  “You don’t need a character reference where you’re going, lad,” Slade said. “Monty, get this piece of shit out of my sight.”

  Eddie snarled, “Shut up, you old prick.”

  And then Eddie found himself face down on the floor again with a foot in his back and pain in his ribs, and his arms so far outstretched that one hand rested under Tyler’s armchair. But evidently they did have time for a character reference, because now Lisa Westmoreland stood again in the doorway, her arms folded, a resolute look on her face.

  “Because you shot your mouth off at Tony Lambert’s scene?”

  Eddie grunted.

  “If you’d left it as a straightforward murder-suicide, you could have been blissfully unemployed now. And still alive tomorrow.”

  “Aw, bless ya; you saying I was too good for your fucking clowns?”

  “Something like that.” She glared at Tyler. “I had to keep you close, where I could keep an eye on you.”

  “It’s a little late for flattery.” Eddie tried to laugh, but his ribs put a sharp stop to it.

  “And then you had to go back, didn’t you—”

  Slade yawned. “Look, this is all very Agatha Christie, and really, I’m enjoying the exposé, but it’s time you stopped breathing, Mr Collins.”

  He smiled up at Slade, and tried to stand, “I’ll be going now, mate, thanks for the hospitality.”

  The kid with the gun stepped forward and raised his eyebrows in a question to Slade. Slade nodded, “Cable tie his wrists. Get Jagger to follow you. And make sure his body is well hidden. Okay?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “But Dad—”

  “Shut it, you.”

  Suddenly Eddie didn’t feel quite so jovial anymore. As the ties nipped the skin on his wrists, and he looked at the people who stared at him, it all became very real. And he wondered if this was his final hour.

  “Don’t take no chances, Gillon. I’m trusting you.” And then he turned to Eddie. “Now you know why I’m above the law, son. And he’s not God, I am.”

  * * *

  They used wide cable ties to make sure Eddie remained compliant, and then a third one looped through the first two and tied into the rear seat belt ring of Eddie’s Discovery to make sure he didn’t try anything foolish on the journey.

  Eddie first saw Gillon in the courtyard as they dragged him from the house. He caught Tyler a good kick in the balls on the way but all it did was earn him a punch in the abdomen that saw him paralysed, unable to breathe at all for what seemed like an hour, until he thought he was going to pass out or die prematurely. But eventually he had hauled in hicks of breath and then a long one and the cold night air and the flicks of rain had brought him back around again. It would have been cruel, he thought, to have denied Gillon his first kill.

  Gillon was whooping with delight, dancing around like an idiot and slapping Eddie on the back of the head. Monty caught hold of the kid as Tyler and Jagger installed Eddie on the rear seat. “Stop fucking about,” he’d said to the lad. Eddie saw him become serious almost immediately, but he also saw the sly glance at his new prisoner, and understood what was crawling through his shallow mind even as he nodded and apologised to Monty for his foolishness.

  “It’s not too late, Tyler,” Eddie whispered. “Just untie me and we’ll call it quits.”

  Tyler just smiled and yanked on the tie harder.

  “I mean it, let me walk. You’ll never be free—”

  Tyler slapped him. “I wish it were me putting that gun to your head.” And then he was gone. The door slammed shut and the interior light blinked out. Eddie was alone. He could hear voices outside, and the voices became shouts and he caught a part of the shout that he wished he hadn’t. “Gillon gets to do it!” Eddie closed his eyes; they were arguing over who got the thrill of killing him like a pair of kids arguing over who got to open the last date on the advent calendar, or who got to ride the bike and who got pillion. Bile rose in Eddie’s throat, and the heat stung as Gillon climbed aboard and closed the door.

  The reflection in the mirror told Eddie he was pleased. He turned in his seat, staring at him, and then laughing. “You look scared fucking shitless!”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I’m gonna fucking love this!”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

  “I want you to know,” Eddie said, “that I will come back and haunt the fuck out of you. Each time you’re on the shitter, I’ll be there, each time—”

  “In fact, I’m gonna stick one right up your arse first. I wanna see if that’ll kill you.” He disappeared into a brief moment of thought. “Hope not,” he said, “I just can’t wait to put one in your brain.”

  “I have the advantage there then.”

  Jagger drove a blue pickup truck past them and out through the broken driveway gates. Gillon engaged gear and set off after it.

  * * *

  After ten minutes, Gillon turned on the wipers as big fat lazy raindrops splattered onto the screen, to be replaced minutes later by a steady, lighter rain. He goaded Eddie all the way. After a further fifteen minutes, the streetlamps ran out and they were heading away from town and up into the countryside somewhere approaching Otley, he guessed.

  All Eddie could see was one red tail light from the pickup and the fan of the Discovery’s headlamps in the hedges to his left, rushing by at a thousand miles an hour.

  “On a serious note,” Gillon cleared his throat, and then lit a cigarette, “I always wondered about kneecapping. You’d hear all this shit on the news about the Irish doing it, and they say it’s really painful.”

  Eddie shook his head.

  “I might give that a try first.”

  “Put some Pink Floyd on, would ya.”

  “Making you nervous?” Gillon stared at Eddie through the rear-view mirror and Eddie could see his eyes squint up as he laughed.

  “Making me bored, you prick.”

  Gillon switched the cigarette to his left hand and pulled out a gun with his right, then he swung it backwards over the seat. “Still bored?”

  “Now I’m delighted. I’m sitting over the petrol tank, you wanker. I’d love you to join me in death.” He saw the kid think about it, and then he laughed meekly and pulled the weapon back into his lap.

  They passed a sign for Bramham, and Eddie heard the kid curse, “The fuck are we going?”

  It didn’t stop the goading or the questions but things calmed down a lot for Eddie over the next twenty minutes. The constant hum of the rain on the roof, the wheels turning through water, and the noisy wipers creaking their way across the screen, successfully combined to drown out Gillon’s incessant bull
shit. But even those sounds began to recede in layers as though Eddie were slowly unpacking the pass-the-parcel goodie. A numbing silence crushed him, and all that existed was the rocking of the Discovery.

  Eddie grew peaceful; sad, but peaceful. This was a horrible way to go, he thought, but at least it would be all over. No more fretting about work, no more worrying about money, or paying the bills, or getting the roof repaired; no more searching for teaspoons, convinced someone was just trying to piss him off all the time, with speed bumps and traffic cameras, and people like Benson who glared and stared and laughed at you behind your back. No more not punching Jeffery for being an arsehole, no more… And then he looked into Ros’s face before she disappeared up the path with Brian, and he saw fear in her eyes.

  Suddenly all the noises from the road, and the rain and the wipers and the arsehole at the wheel thundered home and Eddie shook awake, eyes wide and scared. The calmness had gone, and now he was panicking, now he was looking at the cable ties, pulling at them, trying to get his teeth hooked into them until he saw blood appear on his wrists. And still Gillon yabbered about kneecapping and all Eddie wanted to do was scream.

  But then the pickup truck’s red lights grew bright and an amber turn signal flashed on and off. Gillon stopped talking and Eddie swallowed hard. They were near.

  A road sign briefly proclaimed Dalton Lane before the vehicle lights washed across it. Eddie saw nothing but black fields to his left, black woodland to his right, and then burning red lights to the front as the pickup stopped.

  “Guess we’re here,” Gillon laughed and jumped out of the Discovery, headed over to Jagger.

  The rain pounded on the roof, heavier now they’d stopped, it seemed, and in the headlamps he could see Gillon and Jagger, collars up, shoulders hunched against the downpour conferring, nodding some agreement, and then Gillon headed back this way. Eddie’s heart sank, and he knew the end was coming. There would be no rescue, no cavalry suddenly appearing over the horizon. He trembled slightly.

  Gillon reached in, a pair of cutters in one hand, a gun in the other, and grinning a stupid idiot’s grin as widely as ever. He reached in and snipped the tie holding him to the seat belt anchor. Eddie’s arms fell into his lap and the blood rushed along them, pins and needles tingled in his fingertips. “Ready?”