Eddie considered kicking out at him.
“Don’t even think it.”
Eddie slid along the seat and climbed out onto shaking legs. Rain drenched his hair; mud splashed up his jeans and as soon as he began walking, pushed along from the back by Gillon, his legs felt wet and cold. Soon, his teeth were chattering. He walked slowly towards Jagger. Jagger didn’t smile.
Beyond the pickup truck, its lights speared through the rain and shone into a niche in the trees where scrubby underbrush ran rampant in a deserted corner of woodland. There was no footpath, and Jagger led the way twenty yards through the clinging grass, limping through the sucking mud, pulling against the thorns that tugged at his jeans, rain dancing on his head.
“Okay, lads,” Eddie found himself saying. “Enough is enough. I’m suitably frightened and I promise to pay for the gates.”
It earned him a poke in the back and a grunt. But they walked into the niche where the falling rain seemed ever stronger, as though this was the focus of the storm. The truck’s lights showed Gillon’s shadow bouncing around at the side of Eddie’s own, lit up Jagger’s shiny jacket, shone through the drops of water falling from his gun.
“Here,” Jagger shouted.
Gillon nudged Eddie to where Jagger pointed.
“Shit,” Jagger staggered past them, “spade,” he said, and then, “not till I get back, Gillon.”
The laughter seemed to have died in Gillon now, his giddiness at the prospect of joining the killing club had subsided because it had all become very real for him too. He still wore the sickly grin, Eddie noticed, but it was just a mask stuck in place for the benefit of street cred later. Gillon nodded, “Kneel down.”
“Don’t I get a last request?”
“No.”
“Gimme a cigarette.”
“Ha, in this?” Gillon came up close, “Maybe next time, mate,” he winked. “Now kneel down.”
“Fuck off. You do it the hard way.”
“Turn around and kneel down or I’ll—”
“You’re going to see my face when I die.”
Gillon punched him in the stomach and Eddie went down on his knees into the mud, panting hard. Then Gillon stepped behind him, and brought the gun up to the back of his head.
* * *
“You trust him?”
“Gillon? Course I do.”
“If he doesn’t die—”
“Of course he’ll die. Do you think they’ve gone out for a fucking McDonald’s?”
“If he lives I’m ruined. If I’m ruined,” she said, “you’re ruined too.”
“That a threat?”
“Don’t make me lose my temper, Slade.” Lisa walked up and down the lounge wringing her hands together. Then she stopped, looked at him. “Well?”
“I trust him. And I trust Jagger.” Slade sighed, looked at Monty who merely shrugged and ate another digestive. “Gone are the days when we bring their heads back in a bag. What the hell do you want?”
“I don’t know. And don’t mock me.” She resumed her stroll around the coffee table. “Tell him to send you a picture.”
“What?”
“A picture, by phone. I want a picture of him dead.”
“You are crazy, you know that?”
She stopped in front of Slade. “Please?”
* * *
Jagger slid his gun into his jacket pocket and pulled back the tarp, poking his hand into the darkness searching for the spade. His hand brushed it and dragged it free as he cursed the weather, and suddenly he felt a vibration against his leg and closed his eyes. He knew it was coming and it came just at the right time. He limped back towards Gillon and Collins, pulling his phone out of wet jeans. The display flashed a number, but no name.
He stepped to one side so the headlamps from the truck shone directly on Eddie who was on the ground, head bowed forward, rain pouring off his hair, and he could also see Gillon, twitching, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a golfer practising his swing, getting ready. Jagger’s eyes grew wide. He pressed OK and shouted, “What?” he dropped the spade and took the gun out of his belt, hobbled through the mud as he saw Gillon stiffen, locking his arm, feet planted firmly. He didn’t listen to the phone, couldn’t have heard it properly over the pelting rain anyway; he aimed as he ran and saw in the minutest detail the tendons in Gillon’s arm grow tight, saw the trigger move and then Jagger screamed, “No!”
* * *
“Jagger?” Slade stared into nothing. “Jagger?” and then he heard someone shout “no” and Slade looked around the room as though someone here could tell him what the hell was going on.
Lisa stopped pacing, Monty stopped eating, and even Tyler, dabbing his bust lip, stopped, and stared at his father. Everyone heard a single sharp shot quickly followed by a second. Slade had a worried look on his face. “Jagger? Jagger! What happened?”
And then Jagger came on the phone, and Slade’s eyes refocused. “He fucking shot him. Gillon.”
“What? Gillon shot him, right?”
“No!”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? You’re not making any—”
“He took Gillon’s gun and shot him!”
“How the fuck—”
“Because I wasn’t covering him.”
“Why weren’t you—”
“Because I was answering the fucking phone!”
Lisa’s voice was high, reedy, “Is he dead?”
The line died and Slade looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
* * *
Jagger stepped closer to them. Gillon was lying on his back, feet towards the truck’s lights, head in the shade, but it was easy to see the blood, it was a black sheet draped clumsily over the side of his face and neck; yet the rain pattering into it, bouncing up into the headlamp beam was scarlet. Gillon wasn’t moving.
He looked across at Collins as his phone rang again. “What?” No scream this time, just a resigned whisper barely audible. “Yes, Collins is dead. But so is Gillon.” He listened. “Yes, I shot him. He’s dead!” And then he listened closely, and he almost laughed, “What? Why do you want—” he stared between the phone and Eddie Collins. “Okay,” he said, and hung up.
Collins had landed face first into the brambles and the rocks. The brambles had torn him up pretty badly, one thorn was embedded in his top lip drawing it back over his teeth in a macabre sneer, blood stained his teeth and part of his lower lip. Another thorn had pierced his eyelid, dragging it towards his eyebrow, showing the pale pink underside against the stark white of his eye. The eye did not move, and there was no blood flowing from the wound. His face was contorted further by a rock part-protruding from under his lower jaw and part pushing his cheek outwards. A slug edged its way over the rock.
Jagger pressed buttons on his phone and then got down on his knees, pointed it at Collins’s face until a flash fired. He checked the picture, and then sent it to Slade.
* * *
Slade opened the image and smiled. He didn’t look at the screen long before handing it over to Lisa. She took the phone eagerly, studied the bloody underside of Collins’s face, the shiny matted black hair on top, the twisted lip and the dead, staring eye. It looked evil; it looked like something a horror movie would have been proud of. The dead pupil, the red-eye, the barb sticking through the lid.
“Happy?”
Lisa nodded.
“No way he could not be dead, is there?”
She shrugged, thinking, “No, suppose not.”
“So, are you happy?”
“Yes, I said yes, didn’t I?”
“Good. Then you can take that back to your stores now?”
Lisa took a deep breath, picked up the exhibit bag from the coffee table and headed for the door, Monty following her with her jacket.
* * *
Jagger knelt by Collins and the phone rang again.
“Bury them both. Shift his car a mile or so away, then go home. Come and see me tomorrow at noon.”
/>
— Five —
“Hey baby.”
Ros held her breath, but she couldn’t stop shivering. Her shoes tapped the side of the bath making the water ripple as though there was an earth tremor, as though the big quake had already happened and this was the aftershock.
She closed her eyes as the door squeaked open. She could pretend to be asleep but the shivering would give it away. No way could you sleep while you were shivering.
“I brought you some breakfast,” he said, a kind of excitement in his voice as though it were her birthday and he was treating her to breakfast in bed with a red rose draped across the tray and a kiss-filled card propped up next to the teapot. He placed the tray on the shelf at the foot of the bath and then sat down on the toilet. She could hear him rubbing his hands together. “I want you to know something.” He cleared his throat, “I want you to know that I forgive you, Ros.”
She lay there motionless, trying to relax so she wouldn’t shiver; but failing because the shiver was long past being one caused by the cold. Now it was fear that made her shake.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”
She didn’t. She lay still, holding her breath, tiny fingers of wet hair shaking against her neck.
“Open your fucking eyes!”
Ros sucked in a huge breath, frightened by the echoing scream, and stared at him, trying to keep the shaking under control, but succeeding only in giving herself neck ache. She couldn’t feel her legs properly. She looked up at him as he wiped the spittle away from his lips.
The lips smiled at her. Warm, pleasant, reassuring and gentle. “I love you,” he whispered. And suddenly he was at her side, on his knees, elbows on the edge of the tub, hands together, chin resting on them, smile balancing on the chin. She looked up at him, could see the crumbs of toast from his own breakfast stuck in the stubble at the sides of his smile, a smear of butter on the round of his chin. And his eyes, eating her alive. “I loved you from the first moment I saw you.” His eyes drifted away to a past only he seemed to enjoy. “Did I ever tell you that? I did,” he whispered, “I loved you then and I love you even more now.”
“Brian—”
“And I want you to know,” his arms levelled out across the top of the bath, lowering his face until it too was on the top of the enamel, until it was closer to her, “that I’ve been thinking over what happened last night. And I’ve been thinking that some of it might have been my fault. I mean, if I hadn’t gone out, then…” The smile re-emerged, and she could see grease on his lips too. “Well, no need to dwell on it.”
And then he looked at her and saw she was shivering.
“Cold?”
No, she thought, I’m cleaning the bottom of the fucking bath! “A bit.”
He reached over and pulled the plug, hung it over one of the taps and resumed his earlier position. The water, only about three inches deep, but plenty enough to keep her cold all night, more than plenty to make her limbs ache as it leached all warmth from them, squealed down the plughole, sounding like a cat caught in some machinery. He waited until the final gurgle passed, before saying, “I know this seemed like a lenient kind of punishment; I wouldn’t make a very good Nazi would I, but you made me do it again,” he laughed. “You brought this on yourself—”
“I didn’t do anything to deserve—”
He flicked an arm in the air and Ros recoiled, bringing her hands up to her face, pulling her stiff legs up and screamed at the pain in them, as he only reached for the plug.
“You want some more?”
She was shaking her head, “No, please, Brian. I’m sorry, please, don’t do it again.”
“Are you sorry? Really sorry?”
She nodded vehemently, as though demonstrating that the harder she nodded, the more sorry she was. Her lips were numb, her nose was running, and the shivering had turned into waves of shaking. Perversely, the water, though cold, had kept some of the heat in, in the same way that swimming in the sea felt freezing, but as soon as you climbed out onto the beach, that’s when it got really cold.
“Okay, then. Enough of this nonsense, Ros. You start behaving like a decent woman for a change. You start being a good wife for your hard-working husband, and there’ll be no more of these silly punishments.” He took the weight on his hands and stood. “Fuck knows why I put up with all this shit from you.” He reached for a towel, “Come on get up, get out of those wet clothes, and eat the breakfast I made for you.”
Ros tried to move and couldn’t. She reached over the sides of the bath and pulled, but nothing happened. And then she cried, “I can’t move, Brian.” She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.
He stood there with hands on his hips and eventually the hard face softened and reached down to her. “Here,” he said, “take my hand. Come on, take it. Take it!”
Eventually she reached up to him, and he smiled as though helping the cat out of the machinery with a here I am, rescuing you again, but you know I can’t resist helping a loser look on his face.
“See,” he raised his eyebrows, “how silly you’ve been now?”
She nodded as very slowly she stood, water draining from her clothes. And still she cried for the aches in her body, her locked limbs, her wrinkled skin, and the pain that drummed everywhere, and she breathed tiny breaths through blue trembling lips that clamped around a shivering jaw. Then he went and stood by the door. “I’ve helped you enough, Ros.” He threw the towel at her, “Wise up or suffer.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
— One —
When something in your life grows with each hour until it obliterates your horizon, until you can think of nothing else simply because you can neither see nor feel anything else, it becomes the sole point of your life until it’s dealt with; the entire focus of your waking hours. Like it or not. Life stays on hold until you grow a spine and sort things out.
Twenty-four days ago, Sophie grew a spine.
Sophie had licked her lips. They were dry, her whole mouth was dry, yet she could feel the sweat oozing out, beading on her forehead, running down her back. She stared on, the nerves making her twitchy.
She’d waited nine years for this moment, and now that it was here, she didn’t know whether to rejoice, running up and down between the tables screaming her happiness, or just to turn around and walk back to Kelly’s place with her tail between her legs. After all, she’d thought, a dream was only a dream while it was inside your head. Soon as you tried to make it real, that’s when things tended to go wrong, that’s when it all fell apart and landed in a crumpled heap at your feet.
So maybe it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie. Of course, that was utter rubbish. Even if the dream was crushed until nothing good was left, and all the memories that propelled it were suffocated, it was better than living with a hollow hope; a shadow of uncertainty. At least she’d know, and surely that was better than forever wondering.
And, look on the bright side – a small smile had grown on her lips – if the dream came true, think how fucking happy you’d be! At last.
Sophie had taken the drink with her; it was good to have something to hold when you were this nervous, like a comforter. She’d walked across the room, towards the window seat where Lisa Westmoreland sat.
She looked great. She was a good-looking kid who’d grown into a great looking woman; elegant, refined. Distinguished. Sexy.
Sophie walked in a daze, feeling tremendously uncomfortable, as though all eyes were on her. Sophie’s eyes had never left Lisa’s handsome face, waiting for the moment when she looked up from the table and saw her.
And before she could wonder what her reaction would be, Lisa looked up.
It was an effort, but Sophie had smiled at her; the worry she felt twisted it slightly, making her appear unsure, uncertain... It must have shone through.
The clattering of cutlery, the soft hum of chatter died away and Sophie heard only the soft creak of her black leather jacket and her heart booming in anticipation. Or was
it fear? Dread?
Lisa had recognised her immediately. Her eyes widened instantly, and for the briefest of moments, she smiled. Then the smile turned black and died. She looked shocked. Embarrassed.
“Hey,” Sophie said.
Lisa squirmed, suddenly much less elegant.
“How are you?” Sophie watched her, saw her swallow, saw her looking around as though searching for an exit, or maybe hoping for back-up. But the reply was worse than that when it finally came.
“Do I know you?”
Sophie’s world had ended then. The hopeful smile she wore, all welcoming, all forgiving, turned sour and limped away. Tears filled her eyes. But she tried again, “It’s me, Sophie.”
“I think you’ve made a mistake.”
But she hadn’t made a mistake. It was her, no doubt at all; it was Lisa. It was her Lisa.
And then Lisa’s back-up did arrive. He was tall, wore a businessman’s suit, pink tie, shiny shoes, and he had a salesman’s smile.
That’s when Lisa’s eyes had lit up, and that was when she became elegant again, relaxed even. Exactly the opposite of what they did when Sophie had approached the table.
“Hello, dear,” he said.
Lisa was embarrassed now. She licked her lips and felt awkward. Sophie could tell, didn’t need a fucking shrink to tell you that.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked, taking off his jacket.
The fingers of the hand holding the glass turned white, and Sophie held her expectant breath.
“I’ve no idea; I think she made a mistake. Didn’t you? I think you made a mistake.”
Sophie had looked between Lisa and the salesman. They stared at her. Her world shrank into something the size of a fist. Her eyes clouded over and her chest boiled. In tears, she turned and walked away. And she could have been wrong, but she thought she heard them laughing. When she reached the door, Sophie was full on crying.
The dream had been crushed and the memories propelling it turned to dust and simply blew away.
— Two —
The weeks that had passed felt like a year, but to someone who’d waited a decade, time was easily manipulated. If you played it right, you could fool your mind, you could make time pass quickly. It was a prison thing: sleep often, keep busy, don’t dwell.
Black by Rose Page 26