Deep Water

by Mark Ayre

  Another nod from Tony.

  “So you arrived at what, eight pm?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “Blimey,” said Abbie. “That’s commitment. Don’t fly off the handles. I’m not mocking you. My sister was murdered. I remember the obsession, the need to make things right. To avenge her death.”

  Tony was watching Abbie closely. Too closely. As they made their way down the street, he almost walked into a lamp post and tripped off the curb in quick succession. He was trying to suss out if she was telling the truth.

  “Your sister…” he started.

  “Yeah,” said Abbie. “Years ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  But she couldn’t stop thinking. Bobby’s town, where she had saved a man named Eddie, had cursed her. That place, its people, had made her human, infected her with emotion. Now she was entangled in a situation that involved a teenage boy who had almost been raped and a man who had lost his sister. Two events that had destroyed Abbie’s life many years ago.

  If there was a higher power somewhere up there, she was laughing, or she hated Abbie. This could only be a punishment or a cruel joke.

  The memories were choking. Pushing past them, Abbie forced words up her blocked throat and into the cold morning air.

  “You waited until Louis went upstairs and the lights went out. What time was that?”

  “Midnight,” said Tony.

  “Midnight,” Abbie repeated. Looking at him, she shook her head. “You must see it. You must understand why I won’t return your gun.”

  Tony looked at her. She thought he did understand, but there was no way he was going to say it. Needing to force the point home, Abbie went on.

  “You planned to wait until you were sure Louis was asleep, then break in and end his life. How long would you give Louis after the lights went out? Maybe half an hour, but that would be risky. Two hours feels too long. One hour, that’s your Goldilocks point. Just right.”

  Still nothing from Tony. They reached the bottom of the street. Without thinking, Abbie took a turn onto another cobbled path. Already on this cold Friday morning, ahead of sunset, a couple of shops were opening. Abbie smiled at a shop keeper before returning to Tony.

  “After the lights went out at midnight, did they come back on before Jacob got home? Any of them?”

  Tony didn’t answer, which was all the answer Abbie needed.

  “Could you hear movement inside at any point?”

  Tony didn’t answer, which was all the answer Abbie needed.

  “Did you try to break into the house before Jacob returned home?”

  “Okay,” said Tony. “That’s enough.”

  “You didn’t,” said Abbie. “Which means rather than waiting one hour after Louis turned the light off, you’d sat by that bush in the freezing cold for six, staring at the house, willing yourself to go inside.”

  “I said, Enough.”

  “Do you want this gun back?” said Abbie. “Do you plan to kill Louis?”

  “I can do it. I have to. If you’ll just give me—”

  “Then it’s not enough,” interjected Abbie. “You waited for hours in a freezing cold garden staring at a house because you were too afraid to move, because you’re not a killer, because you don’t have the stomach to walk up to a sleeping man, put a gun to his head, and pull the trigger. I’m sure you conjured numerous excuses while freezing your butt off in that garden, but you know that’s the real reason. With the lights off, with no sign Louis was awake, there was no other reason to delay your break-in. If Jacob hadn’t arrived and shocked you into action, I’m willing to bet you would have stayed there until the sun rose, and Louis left, or the gardeners returned. Until you knew your chance was gone. Then you’d have slunk off home, got into bed, and screamed into your pillow. You would have hated yourself even more than you do now. You should be thanking me for dragging you away. For giving you an excuse.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the second street. Rather than turning, Abbie stopped and faced Tony. From her jacket, she removed the gun and held it by her stomach. Stepping closer to Tony, putting her chest an inch from his, Abbie trapped the weapon between them, concealing it from passers-by. Though Abbie was tall, Tony was half a head taller. Tilting her head up, she met his eye.

  “I don’t care if you tell a thousand lies to me,” said Abbie. “But I strongly advise being honest with yourself.”

  Taking Tony’s hand, Abbie moved it to the gun, wrapped it around the handle with her hand over his.

  “You were having no luck picking Louis’ lock when I found you,” said Abbie. “It’s gone six. Louis will soon be awake if he isn’t already. He probably keeps a gun by the bed in case of trouble if he’s the type of man you’ve implied. But let’s assume everything goes to plan. You get through the door and, without Jacob hearing, make your way to the master bedroom. Louis doesn’t wake. You turn the gun—” she twisted it in his hand, so the business end was pressed into her stomach. Tony’s breath hitched with fear. Good. She wanted him to imagine this. “—towards his head. You have him in your sights; there is nothing he can do to stop you. You think of your sister. Remind yourself over and over that he murdered her. You have your finger on the trigger. It will all be over in a second.”

  She put his finger on the trigger. He was trembling so hard, it would be a miracle if he didn’t accidentally shoot her. Abbie didn’t shake. She kept her eyes on his.

  “You tell yourself all you have to do is pull the trigger, and it’s over.”

  She still had one hand laid over his. She squeezed.

  “Could you do it? Could you end Louis’ life?”

  “My sister was only fifteen,” he said, his voice cracked, broken. “She was innocent.”

  “Doesn’t answer the question. Could you kill Louis?”

  “I have to. I have to do it.”

  “Could you kill him?”

  He was staring at her. Tears brimmed and then broke from his eyes. Looking down, he saw the gun in his hand, saw the way it pushed into Abbie’s midriff. He imagined pulling the trigger, imagined the bullet tearing through flesh. Closing his eyes, he envisioned putting a shot through Louis’ brain.

  In a sudden jerk, he yanked his hand from the gun and shoved it towards Abbie. With calm speed, she slipped it into her jacket.

  Still sobbing, Tony took two steps back, then his legs seemed to give way. He dropped to his knees and buried his head in his hands.

  There were two or three people in the street now. Catching sight of the crying, crumpled man, they looked his way. Ignoring them, Abbie crouched beside Tony and put an arm around him.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “I can’t let her down. I can’t let her down.”

  “And you won’t,” said Abbie. “You’ll never let her down, no matter what you do to Louis. I promise you that.”

  He continued to cry, and Abbie pulled him closer. She shushed him and waited for him to get himself under control. At last, he was able to tear his face from his hands and look at Abbie. He had been quite handsome before he broke down, but now was not the time to mention he was an ugly crier.

  “What now?” he said.

  “We can deal with Louis later,” said Abbie. “For now, you need to take me to your mother.”

  Eight

  The sun climbed over the houses and shops, draping the quaint coastal town in a weak, watery light that seemed to contain no warmth.

  Tony didn’t look up to see the sun sweep the darkness from the sky. At Abbie’s side, he kept his gaze on his feet except for the occasional directional check. His focus remained on keeping the tears at bay. It was a battle he was winning. Just.

  They didn’t talk. Abbie knew Tony’s younger sister had been a teenager, a decade or so younger than him. He claimed Louis had murdered the girl, but Abbie guessed he meant Louis had given the order. People who lived in six-bedroom houses rarely did their own killing. Tony hadn’t detailed how his sister had died, and Abbie didn�
��t press for info. Now was not the time. This didn’t stop her considering the situation.

  Those involved in organised crime killed less frequently than most people believed. Murder was messy, and crooked enterprises had enough trouble keeping their drug dealing and weapon running from the police without leaving dead bodies all over the place. For Louis to have risked killing a teenager, there had to be a major feud between the families. To Abbie, this indicated Tony’s mother was no saint. Tony had described her as the head of the family. Abbie could not prevent herself from imagining a female Don Corleone.

  Reaching the beach, they made their way west along the concrete pavement, above the strip of sand where last night a party had taken place. Abbie took note when they passed the cave in which Abbie had almost killed Ana. No one stood outside. If anyone was inside, they were silent. Abbie guessed Ana was long gone.

  As she passed the cave, memories of Harry flocked once more to Abbie’s mind. When she shoved them away, they were replaced by images of Violet, her beautiful, smiling sister, in the days before her murder. A subconsciously driven hand reached for Abbie’s bag. It felt the outline of The Stand. Violet’s favourite book and the only possession of her sister’s Abbie had kept.

  When Abbie moved Violet aside, Bobby replaced her. Abbie’s heart hitched at the sight of him. He had a handsome smile, but that wasn’t why Abbie focused on it. That easy, gentle smile represented the ordinary life of which Abbie had temporarily believed she could grab a slice. It had given her hope. Now, it morphed into a source of depression. Pushing it away, Abbie continued along the beach, forcing herself to focus on the next step and the next. Nothing else.

  “This is it.”

  Abbie glanced at the house to which Tony was pointing and smiled. Their entire walk along the beach, the house had been in sight, but Abbie had never considered it might be their destination. As soon as Tony pointed, she thought, Of course it is. That house on the rocks, that eyesore hanging over the ocean, was always going to be the place.

  The house itself was a similar size to Louis’. Perhaps a little bigger. Definitely not smaller, though it didn’t have a back garden. Instead, a sheer drop and the ocean. Great for views, not so good for a kick about.

  “It was my step-father’s place,” said Tony. “No one wanted him to build it, but when someone with his wealth decides they want something... you know how it goes.”

  “Was his place?” said Abbie.

  “Yeah,” said Tony. “He’s dead now. Like the rest.”

  On this intriguing comment, Tony turned from the path and made his way along the outcrop, the beach to his left, more rocks and water to his right. The house at the end.

  Abbie followed. To her, the house didn’t look right. It seemed to belong on a gated street full of other six-ten bedroom detached homes. Not on this outcrop of rocks by the sea. The house that sat here should be tall and narrow. Looking at it, you should get the sense that a strong gust might at any moment blow it into the sea. You should never feel safe stepping into a place that hung over the sea.

  Stupid thoughts. The wealthy were often eccentric; that did not mean they built houses that might at any second drop into the ocean. That was not how the rich stayed rich.

  There was no gate. The driveway held space for four cars. A garage to the side could park two more. Currently, there was only one car outside. With his key, Tony let them inside.

  “Good thing you didn’t have to pick the lock,” said Abbie. To his look, she said, “Too soon?”

  A spacious hallway led to a large kitchen. Before that, Tony opened the first door on the left and led Abbie into a circular living room full of comfortable sofas and a gorgeous rug. Around the room's edges were cabinets and shelving, giving the place a cluttered but homely feel. Abbie saw books for all ages, fiction and non-fiction, as well as what appeared to be every board game ever invented.

  "Mum's big on family," Tony said, catching Abbie's eye as she surveyed the room. "Make yourself at home. I'll find mum. You want a drink?"

  Tony's eyes were red and puffy. Abbie figured half from sleep deprivation and half from misery. She wished she could comfort him but thought it best not to go down that road.

  "A water if you're getting yourself something," she said. "Nothing otherwise."

  Tony left her to settle. Crossing the room, Abbie positioned herself so she could see the only door, the one through which she had entered and through which Tony had just left, and the only window, which was wide, tall, and looked onto the driveway towards the homes that had to hate this place's existence.

  The seat was comfortable, but Abbie's churning mind prevented her from relaxing in the five minutes before the living room door reopened. It was not Tony who entered, but his mother. Abbie wasn't surprised.

  "Good morning," said Tony's mum.

  As Abbie rose, Ma Tony closed the living room door and offered a hand. Abbie guessed there would be no water. "Alice Rayner. You must be Abbie."

  Taking the older woman's hand, Abbie shook, smiled and said, "That's me."

  “Just not by birth?”

  “Not by birth,” Abbie agreed. “It's my taken rather than given name. It's on my driver's license if you'd like to see."

  "I would."

  Abbie realised their hands were still clasped though they had a while ago stopped shaking. Trying to hold the smile, Abbie eased her hand free and removed her wallet from her bag. From within, she extracted her driver's license and passed it over.

  Alice looked at the card, examined the name and then Abbie's photo.

  "Could be a fake," she said, staring at it.

  "It could," Abbie agreed. "What makes you think I'd need a fake name?"

  "What would make me think you wouldn't?" Alice asked. While Abbie tried to decide if this made sense, Alice moved on. "Why Abagail King?"

  "Why not?"

  "Don't tell me it's random." Alice rolled her eyes. "Consciously or subconsciously, when given a choice, people always pick a name that means something to them."

  "If it was subconscious, I wouldn't know what it was, would I?"

  "Not off the top of your head. You seem like a smart girl. Self-aware. Why don't you dig into that pretty little head of yours and see if you can uncover the reason?"

  "Why?"

  Both women were standing. Alice was as tall as Abbie. Her white hair and her face's sharp lines, combined with her bright blue eyes and easy smile, gave her an air of powerful dignity. One look into those eyes made you want to submit to her rule. Luckily for Abbie, she'd had plenty of practice at being obstinate.

  Alice waited. And waited. Shook her head when she realised Abbie wasn't going to give.

  "Spoilsport," she muttered, but with good humour. "On to business then. My son says you believe I'm in danger but can't explain how you know. You want to save my life but can't explain why you'd care. Well, consider me intrigued."

  "I can imagine. But if I implied to Tony that I couldn't explain how I knew you were in danger or why I'd want to save you, I misspoke, and I apologise."

  "Apology accepted," said Alice. Her eyes gleamed with expectation. She wanted to hear Abbie's explanation. She was set to be disappointed.

  "The truth is I could explain. I just won't."

  "Ah, that's a mean bit of misdirection," said Alice, then waved it away. "No matter. I don't require saving."

  "Yeah," said Abbie. “I hear that a lot."

  Alice examined Abbie. Her smile lingered. It looked to be natural, but who could tell? It struck Abbie that Alice was likely a good actress.

  "A lot," Alice mused. "You some kind of hero?"

  "Please," said Abbie. "Aren't heroes action-figure looking men who go around saving pretty young ladies? Not bitter, damaged women who save OAPs."

  "Excuse me. I'm fifty-nine. Until tomorrow."

  Abbie smiled. That was interesting. “Happy birthday for tomorrow, though it'll be a shame if someone murders you before you have the chance to blow out the candles."


  Alice raised her eyebrows. For a beat, all was quiet. Then the fifty-nine year old burst out with a laugh of such warmth. Abbie almost decided on the spot to save the woman.

  "You've made a good first impression," said Alice. "And for what it's worth, you may not have the right bits to be a conventional hero, but you're good looking enough, and you've got the right attitude."

  Turning, Alice crossed the room and looked out the window. She ran her finger across a board game. The laugh had died. Abbie guessed the smile had slipped from Alice's face. The older woman wasn't the kind to allow a stranger to see her pain. Probably wasn't the kind to let her nearest and dearest see it either.

  "Gender aside, if you are a hero, I wish you were conventional in saving pretty young things. That was the kind I needed."

  Abbie felt her hands tense by her side. "Your daughter?"

  A curt nod. Alice didn't turn.

  "My little Aurora," she said. "Namesake of Sleeping Beauty, and now that's what she is. Except no true love's first kiss will wake her."

  A deep sigh and the veneer slid away. The wound was fresh. Abbie was right about Alice and acting. She was holding it together through pretence, but her pain was right at the surface. Abbie understood. She was amazed the older woman could stay so strong so soon after her daughter's demise. Abbie had been a wreck for weeks after losing her baby and had disappeared into rage and grief for just as long upon losing her sister.

  "If you're into saving lives, she was the one," said Alice. "My life means little now. Don't stick around; you'd be wasting your time."

  After another heavy breath, Alice swivelled back on her leg and faced Abbie again. The smile was gone, but strength had defeated grief, at least for a moment. There were no tears. Alice looked every bit the matriarch Tony had implied she was.

  Sensing Alice was preparing to remove Abbie from the house, she, Abbie, acted on impulse, sliding the drawstring bag from her shoulder and pulling from inside the book wrapped pillowcase.