Kiss Me, Kill Me

by Mullins, Louise

  I’d have agreed to anything if it meant I’d be released sooner than the mandatory twenty-eight days I’d been admitted for.

  BETHAN

  Now

  I open my eyes and stare at the digital alarm clock on the cabinet at my bedside until the blurry green numbers unmerge into four separate units. It’s noon. My face is damp against the pillow, my stomach crampy. I stand and immediately tear my eyes away from my reflection in the full-length mirror centred between my own and Humphrey’s wardrobes.

  My hair is a mass of greasy waves, there is a ring of red wine tattooed around my lips and my breath tastes of ash. I use the wall to hold myself upright as I cross the room, light-headed. When I reach the bathroom and tug my knickers down to sit over the toilet bowl there are spots of blood on the gusset.

  ‘What a great start to a miserable day.’

  I wipe, flush, wash my hands, take a swig of water from the tap to rid my cottonmouth and rub my mascara-clogged eyelashes with a tissue until it’s smeared charcoal-black.

  I exit the bathroom after a shower, my face heavily made up, hair glued to my scalp with enough hairspray to fuel a housefire.

  I hold my cigarette away from me while I light it as I step outside the cottage, and gag as I blow smoke into the grainy mist. I shiver and rub my temples with a thumb and forefinger.

  Rain bounces off the steel-cladded roof of the disused barn to the side of the property. I pull hard on my cigarette and walk to it, squelching through the mud in my Balenciaga’s, place my palm on the pebbledash wall to feel the texture of something solid, and a fleeting movement between the trees behind the building causes me to swallow and cough the smoke out from between my lips.

  Someone moves beyond the branches, presses his or her foot onto a twig. It snaps, and another one, higher up the bark, rebounds near to where I stand, flicking water onto my face. I spin round and run, leaving a spray of backwashed mud across the otherwise pristine white barn exterior.

  And then I see him.

  His handsome face arced by a dash of sunburst through the drizzly skyline. A tall, solidly built mass of lean muscle and aged intelligence. He gives me the eye, nods, then turns and strolls away.

  My cigarette hangs limply between two fingers, browned and soggy, my hand shaking so much I release it, watch it fall onto the puddled ground. I laugh in awe. Then find I can’t stop. I’m howling and bawling and soaked through, tears and rain streaking my cheeks, when, crossing the thin path of windblown deadening grass, a woman holding a set of leather reins comes bounding towards me.

  ‘I’m so sorry but Cad,’ she points to the stallion that had frightened me to tears of nervous laughter, ‘he’s escaped the field. He wouldn’t jump at Chepstow for the Welsh Grand National, but he’s got a bloody hair under his tail about rabbits.’

  ‘Cad’s an unusual name.’

  ‘Cadwalader. It’s the name given to a battle leader. Befitting as he’s also a bit of a rogue, as you can probably tell. Although he was an untamed beauty when we, that’s me and my partner Joya, bought him. We renamed him when we took him on. He was known then as Arawn.’

  ‘Unrestrained wildness.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she smiles. ‘Didn’t do him justice.’ She studies me for a moment, points at the hedgerows, then says, ‘Do I have your permission to slip through there into the field to fetch him back?’

  At my nod she bounds forward, pulls on the chicken-wire fencing separating the surrounding wilderness from the garden, where there is already a gap, and tugs on it until it rips wide enough to glide through. She calls to her horse through the hedge, pushing aside the Sycamore branches as she trudges onward. ‘Cad? I’m coming to fetch you.’ He snorts a reply from somewhere nearby and I exhale a heavy breath.

  First world problems.

  My own involves a possible witness to my husband’s illegal burial if not also his death for which I failed to provide help, and another individual – the horse-owner – who can attest to my upbeat character twelve and a half hours afterwards.

  ‘Fucking marvellous.’

  I skid and slide in my designer trainers through the thick slimy mud to reach the front door. As I pull it open a gust of wind attempts to wrench it from my hand. The wind is as volatile as my mood: calm one minute, furious the next.

  Once I start to pack our belongings, my unstable temper is replaced with excitement. And by the time I’ve filled the boot of the car with our suitcases, coats and spare shoes I’m focused exclusively on the wealth I am about to procure.

  The drive home to my estate is unencumbered but without Humphrey to argue with I spend the three hours and fifty-seven minutes of it listening to Kiss FM and swearing at the radio presenter every time he cuts a song off to discuss how much he likes it or to offer a competition the contestants never seem surprised or overly pleased to have won. After another rendition of Ava Max’s ‘Psycho’, I switch it off and drive the final few yards in silence.

  It’s as I’m parking that I really absorb the magnitude of everything I’ve inherited, how far from that emotionally neglected child I’ve come.

  ‘You’re the Lady of the manor,’ I sigh with a smile as I exit the car.

  I picture my name listed on the land registry. Owner/proprietor: Melanie… No, Bethan Philips.

  Melanie… where did that come from?

  I need a drink. I’m rattled. I can’t let my guard slip.

  I stare up at the annex of the large building, filled with antiques and family heirlooms. Collectors editions of art, books and music.

  I have so much to do.

  I dump the evidence of our holiday at the foot of the staircase. I don’t give myself time to rest before I begin to explore the house for proof of Humphrey’s worth.

  I start in the attic and work my way down to the top floor, rooting through boxes of paperwork, files of accounting records and shoe boxes stuffed with photographs. Some black and white, some coloured, most taken with Canon’s, and all printed by a photography company no longer in operation. There are a few images of his first wife, their wedding, their families, mutual friends and acquaintances.

  The ceremony was in 1980, five years before I was born. The men have unruly hair, porn-star moustaches, and wear tuxedos. The women have perms or boyish pixie-cuts, their jewellery is gaudy and their clothing floral with shoulder pads and puffy sleeves. The bride wears a string of pearls and a hideous ivory dress that reminds me of the toilet roll doll cover my gran had in the bathroom of her council house.

  I continue flicking through the photographs until I find the familiar leather album with the gold embossed lettering on the front, titled ‘Our Wedding’. I skip it, not wanting to remind myself that it was all a farce. But I can’t entirely avoid our ‘special day’.

  There are loose images of my fatherless walk up the aisle – Derek had to act as his stand-in, giving me away with a faux smile plastered over his smarmy face – along with the marquee, the cake, the banquet and the wedding night, stuffed between pictures of Humphrey as a toddler and a few of his long-deceased childhood pets: a couple of dogs and a cat. Me, posing for the camera in a hotel room at the Celtic Manor Resort. Some sexy shots. Then a bed sporting a sheer velvet duvet cover I don’t recognise, a pair of legs waxed to a shine that are much too slim to be mine. I flip the final two pictures over. There is a braless blonde woman in one, Humphrey’s hand over the lens of the other. Not us. Not his ex-wife. A rebound fling? A mistress?

  I continue my mission – pulling out drawers and throwing linen and books onto the floor in my haste to uncover Humphrey’s hideaway – until my arms ache and my legs are cramped.

  Why did Humphrey keep his most precious documents hidden away from me, his wife?

  It takes me all evening and most of the night to find what I’m looking for: a stack of aged, tabbed manila folders, the fronts of which are written on with black biro and dated April and whatever year they were filed – tax returns for the various business investments Humphrey made throug
hout his life. When I do, I choke out a sob of despair. Because there is evidence too, that he lost as much as he gained from his pyramid selling, timeshares and livestock.

  I flick through the self-assessment forms which are handwritten to begin with, then typed, then faxed. Some more recent ones are photocopied. And the most up-to-date ones are scanned. As I’m returning the folder dated 5th April 2018–4th April 2019 a piece of paper folded in half flutters onto my lap. The envelope for the typed letter is stamped with a local postmark, dated three months ago.

  Maenor Blodau Gwyllt,

  Goldcliff,

  Casnewydd,

  Gwent.

  FTAO H. E. Philips,

  I write to regrettably inform you that your recent loan application was declined by Sceptre Universal Bank. I was unable to secure the funds of £25,000. This decision was based on information acquired from the following sources: credit scoring, credit history, personal banking, business income, company expenditure, retirement funds, and the current value of shares.

  In relation to our recent discussion concerning your financial investments, both in the UK and abroad, I advise you to transfer any remaining monies, including foreign dividends, to your personal account and withdraw them before instigating its closure.

  Best regards,

  J. T. Hughes (ACCA)

  What did their conversation entail? Why was Humphrey advised to withdraw all his money? And if his foreign property, dividends and investments still exist, then where’s the cash?

  I thumb the screen of my phone to Google Johnathon Timothy Hughes Associates and learn they are a Gwent-based accountancy firm located in the centre of Newport.

  The faint purr of a car engine draws my attention to the doorway. I drop the folder to the floor at my feet, tread across the room and cock my head towards the top of the staircase to where a light tap has begun against the ancient wooden front door below. Too heavy to be rain. Too early to be the post. Muriel wouldn’t dare show her face here after being laid off.

  I tip-toe down the stairs, peer through the leaded window to the side of the porch where a shadow shifts from side to side as though the person is leaning his or her weight onto one foot and then the other.

  Impatient for me to open the door or feeling violent?

  ‘I know you’re in there. The car you’ve got parked out here is rented under your name.’ Gravel shifting beneath booted feet. ‘And it looks like you hit something. There’s a dent across the bonnet.’

  I don’t recall the man’s deep voice or his Gloucestershire accent.

  ‘Humphrey? I’m not going away. This isn’t going away. You must pay up.’

  He paces, his footsteps scuffing the dust and dirt from the drive that’s blown onto the concrete step in the wind. ‘Tomorrow. Los Reyes tapas bar. 7 p.m.’

  The Kings Mexican restaurant, eight miles from here, and if he came from Gloucester much further from anyone who might know the man.

  He hovers a while, turns eventually and strolls away.

  I rush into the living room and press an eye to the net curtains. He closes the door of the Bentley he’s just got into, which reverses slowly before reluctantly edging out of the courtyard and away from the house. I mentally note the vehicle’s registration to file in case it becomes relevant one day, then tread into the kitchen where I pour a rich Domaine de la Romanée-Conti into a Waterford goblet. I sip the rich, fruity red while I try to create a logical explanation for Humphrey’s deceit.

  Why would a man with his wealth need a loan? And why would he borrow money from someone I’ve never met? Unless…

  The idea that he could be broke is absurd. He owns an estate worth over £1.5 million. He considered his twenty-two-thousand-pound E-Class – before he wrote it off – a run-around for fuck’s sake.

  I swallow the last dregs of wine from my crystal glass. It tastes bitter.

  The garage will be trying to contact Humphrey about his accident with the hawthorn bush. The insurance from that alone would be enough for me to afford to live in luxury for the next twelve months. Except I can’t access it without his permission or his debit card, which is in his wallet, inside the pocket of his coat, on his back.

  I must find out where he stashed the money he withdrew from those accounts as a matter of priority.

  DI LOCKE

  Then

  A courtroom is like a place of worship. Everyone bows down to the judge as though he is a godlike spectre. But the trial is like a theatre. Everyone reading their lines, weaving together a story that fits their own agenda. It’s the jury’s job to figure out which actor is playing the hero.

  And it quickly became apparent our star witness had gained not only the jury’s sympathy but also that of the accused’s wife who wasn’t seated in the public gallery to support her husband. We learned why before the second day’s hearing when the exclusive interview she’d given to a journalist was published online.

  By the third day the entrance to Cardiff Crown Court was so swarmed by press, riot police were required to maintain order of the crowds.

  We knew the evidence was slim, so we had all the more reason to celebrate when, five days after proceedings had begun the judge declared Rick Kiernan guilty of murder times five.

  The prosecutors were at one end of the bar, the defence drowning their sorrows at the other end, I was standing in the middle ordering mine and Jones’ drinks, not sure how to feel.

  ‘I hope he rots,’ said Mrs Kiernan, slamming her handbag down on the counter and downing the glass of gin the barman had just handed her.

  She clocked me and thrust her hand out to me. I backed into whoever was behind me, and mumbled an apology, staring at Mrs Kiernan’s swollen fingers, adorned in gold, silver and gemstones every colour of the rainbow. ‘I want to thank you, Emma, Mrs Locke, Detective, for making sure that bastard ex-husband of mine is no longer prowling the streets.’

  I took her hand and shook it. ‘You’re welcome. But I was just doing my job.’

  Though right then I didn’t feel as if I had. Because although we’d been able to prove that Rick and the Newport Butcher were one and the same there wasn’t enough evidence to tie him to the murder of Jane Doe.

  MELANIE

  Then

  I met Cai in my final year at Hartridge High School. The building, cracked and damp and damaged by concrete cancer, has since been demolished, rebuilt and renamed Llanwern. But the school, when I was enrolled there, was situated within walking distance of the estate where most of the fathers who worked the steel mine and the mothers who remained at home tending to their younger children and completing the household chores before their teens returned for dinner, lived. It was during one lunchtime between exams that I ended up seated beside Cai. We fell for that young naïve love the songwriters from the romantic playlist he’d recorded for me on a cassette tape from the Top 40 charts sang about.

  I’d chosen to study art, history and Spanish. He was in my compulsory English, maths, and science classes. He sat geography and French with Maddison.

  She’d chosen home economics for one of her GCSEs, so we only got to spend the occasional break between lessons together. And it was during one such day, when our tutorials didn’t allow for us to catch up with each other while smoking behind the bike sheds during recess, that I first spoke to Cai. He asked me to light his cigarette.

  I slid my hand down the sleeve of my coat and stood close enough to him that I could smell the washing powder on his clothes as I lit the end of his Mayfair. The spark of flame protected from the wind caused his eyes to sparkle and I felt my face warm.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  I smiled because if I’d opened my mouth, I’d barely have been able to splutter a reply.

  One year later we were partway through our finals. Cai smiled at me then sat at his desk, two spaces to my right and within my line of sight. I winked back and wrote my name, student ID and form number at the top of the piece of A4 paper in front of me, waited for the clock to strike 1.30 p
.m. then turned over the page of the booklet to begin my English literature exam. I noticed Cai hesitate, take his time to choose a pencil, drop it and collect it from the floor while he removed a folded chewing gum wrapper from the underside of his desk and slid it beneath his exam booklet.

  He didn’t need to cheat. He excelled in spelling, grammar and punctuation. But he was easily distracted, chronically bored and would rather have been doing something other than writing with his hands. Shakespeare to him was like football was to me: although I couldn’t understand the rules, I was good at scoring a goal. Cai didn’t read for pleasure. He couldn’t unpick an author’s work and decipher the hidden meanings behind their words. But it was our opposite abilities that glued us together.

  It wasn’t a physical attraction. It was spiritual. We read each other’s mood and often communicated with just a look or a subtle movement. Which was why when at the school leavers’ disco, he took my hand and regarded me with a lengthy look I squeezed his in return and we walked out of the hall, down the tree-lined path, across the A-road, through the estate, past the green and into Ringland woods.

  We scrabbled around in the dark looking for rocks and kindling to create a fire. Then, cuddled against each other beneath the hood of a tree, we watched the embers flutter in the breeze while sharing a pre-rolled joint.

  When I returned home, an hour past my curfew, I ate a twelve-pack of cheese-flavoured tortilla crisps, twenty-four chocolate biscuits and drank a litre bottle of coke. Even after they’d been washed in powder and ironed, the woodsmoke clung to my clothes.

  When I got caught by a teacher leaving the school by climbing a hedge while attempting to bunk off , I dipped my chin and fluttered my eyelashes at him and got away with a sharp rebuke. From then on, I readily embraced my femininity as experience taught me it softened men to my whims.

  While I hadn’t bothered with my appearance before bunking off school to climb trees and investigate derelict buildings with DANGER: KEEP OUT signs attached to the mesh fencing fronting them, I started to care about the cut and style of my hair and began to wear makeup. My tomboy image was replaced by designer sportswear in shades of pink, lilac and cream instead of unknown branded turquois, orange or green.