Kiss Me, Kill Me

by Mullins, Louise

  ‘Not your daughter, Mrs Hale. Your husband,’ said the tallest of the two men.

  The other officer’s eyes found Ade’s. ‘Adrian Hale?’

  He looked defeated and nodded.

  ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of communicating with a child whom you have been grooming with the intent of meeting by arranging and facilitating the commission of a child sex offence, sections 14, 15, and 15a of the 2003 Sex Offences Act…’

  My mother jumped off the sun lounger, mouth open in the shape of a scream that took a while to extend from her brain to her vocal cords. The glass flew at his face before she collapsed at my feet, almost bringing me down with her, where she sat, hugging my legs until Gran dragged her off me and led her into the house.

  ‘We’re going to the central custody suite,’ the officer directed at Ade, whose face was cut and bloodied. ‘They’re only surface wounds. We’ll get you cleaned up.’

  The other held a piece of paper in his hand that said:

  WARRANT TO ENTER AND SEARCH PREMISES.

  I watched as Ade was escorted through the house, out the front door, and into the police car parked in front of the gate.

  I waited until he was gone before I turned back to the house. My mother was stood at her bedroom window, tears streaming down her face, eyes hard. I wasn’t sure if she was mad at me for wearing an I-told-you-so expression on my face or Ade. She retreated from the window before I could decide.

  Two casually dressed detectives arrived in an unmarked car. They seized a Dell computer, a few floppy discs and Ade’s porn stash.

  I’d never had a strong relationship with my mother but Ade’s sudden departure, the reveal of the sick secret he’d kept from us both, acted as the catalyst that inevitably widened the gap between us further, causing a chasm that couldn’t be refilled. Not even when she met Paul.

  *

  Dr Watkins tilted her head, mirroring me. ‘Your mother began to exhibit symptoms of depression,’ she summarised.

  ‘I think she blamed herself for Ade’s behaviour.’

  ‘You think she felt responsible for Ade’s actions because she wasn’t there to oversee them, to supervise him.’

  ‘That and, there I was flaunting my relationship while she mourned the loss of another.’

  ‘You think she was jealous.’

  ‘I was with Brandon most of the time. We were inseparable. After Ade was arrested my mother looked at me with contempt.’

  ‘You think she envied you.’

  ‘I left home to move in with a man to spite her.’

  ‘Your grandmother was there.’

  ‘It was my fault Gran overdosed and stopped paying her rent and had to live with us.’

  ‘It was an accident. You were a child.’ She paused, leaned forward to reflect my own defensive stance. ‘I’d like us to explore why you feel obligated to ensure other’s happiness.’

  I uncrossed my legs.

  She uncrossed hers. ‘Why you’re so willing to take the blame for things that are out of your control.’

  She softened her voice. ‘Why you’re convinced you murdered your boyfriend.’

  I lowered my gaze.

  *

  Brandon took the duffle bag from my outstretched hand and offered my mother a nod and a weak smile goodbye, that became one of relief the second he turned his back on her.

  I followed him down the path to the Cosworth that was half-packed with my belongings and stared vacantly through the tinted passenger window at my pale-skinned, greasy-haired mother as we drove away. Gran waved at me over her shoulder.

  I felt Brandon’s hand on my thigh as we neared the junction and I turned to look at him. ‘I’m never going back there.’

  ‘Not even for Sunday lunch?’

  ‘I don’t ever want to see her again.’

  He patted my thigh. ‘I can roast potatoes.’

  I swatted him away and turned back to the window to hide my smile.

  We met in the college canteen. As soon as our eyes met after I’d walked into the tray he held in his hands, spilling tango over his oily overalls, and he raised his eyebrows, told me to buy him another drink, I knew I’d met my match.

  He smiled as he took the can I proffered and thanked me. Then he asked, ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Would you like to do nothing with me?’

  It was the cheeky glint in his eyes that led me to say, ‘Sure.’

  He picked me up and drove us to Blaencuffin canyon where we spent the evening stargazing, eating the picnic he’d prepared, and getting to know each other.

  From our suburban levelled abode there was no view of the fiery reds and blazing oranges of the setting sun. Just an oppressing, overcast sky that meant we had to flick all the lights on the second we entered his two-bedroom townhouse.

  He carried my bulging bags upstairs to the bedroom we were going to share while I searched the kitchen cupboards for enough food to create a meal with that portrayed me as the mature little wifey I was glad to act the part of.

  I heard Brandon opening and closing drawers, imagined him placing my folded clothes into neat piles inside the unit that lined the wall of his bedroom.

  He came downstairs and sat at the table while I dished up. He raised his nose and sniffed. ‘Tomato, basil, garlic and… is that beef?’

  ‘Meatballs and pasta.’ I put a plate in front of him and motioned to the candles. ‘Romantic.’

  He nodded his approval and I sat opposite.

  He stopped me before I could raise a forkful of food to my mouth and took my hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb. ‘I know you’re weirded out by the lack of tension in our home but I’m hoping you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t start arguments, Brandon.’

  I finish them.

  ‘That’s good because I’ve taken the initiative to choose which side of the bed I’ll be sleeping on – the right. You get the left, nearest the radiator.’ He leaned over his food, his sleeve skimming across the blood red sauce.

  ‘Anything else I should know about?’

  ‘The house is old so it’s likely someone died here once so it could be haunted.’ He darted his eyes around the room.

  I flicked a spoonful of pasta onto his face. ‘Liar.’

  He plunged a finger into his food and smeared sauce onto the tip of my nose.

  That’s how the fight started.

  Oasis played in the background from the stereo hidden behind a plant almost as tall as Brandon. Its large, dark green leaves looked waxy and smelt of plastic, but he insisted it wasn’t.

  ‘It’s not real.’

  ‘I’m telling you it is,’ he laughed as I dusted it.

  ‘Do you water it?’

  ‘Yes, but not for a while. And now that you’ve moved in it’s going to be your job.’

  ‘Oi!’ I threw the duster at his head. ‘Your turn to act the role of Stepford Wife.’

  ‘Do I get to wear your sexy maid’s outfit?’

  I studied his lean muscular form. ‘It won’t fit you. Your arse is too fat.’

  That first night in my new home ended in bed before we’d got halfway through the meal. Too high on excitement and unfamiliarity to eat, Brandon lying beneath me, my thighs clamped against his hips. My face resting on his heaving chest, his hot breath on the crown of my head.

  He threaded his fingers through my tangled hair, stroked then turned my chin up, forcing me to look at him. ‘I love you, Mel.’

  I pushed myself upright and pressed my damp, hungry lips against his.

  I thought that was the way to express my feelings.

  My mother taught me that.

  Brandon was a hands-on man. He had to have a tool in one hand and the other in my knickers. But when we weren’t fucking each other senseless we were partaking in a screaming match. The only contestants in a power-play, neither one of us willing to surrender control, both too stubborn to admit when we were wrong and acce
pt defeat.

  Our passion didn’t fizzle out, it exploded in the most horrific and violent way.

  When Dr Watkins therapised me into altering my perceptions to the events in my life there was one thing her textbook counselling sessions got wrong.

  I did kill Brandon.

  BETHAN

  Now

  I throw kitchen towels and tampons onto the conveyor belt and slam a checkout divider down to separate my items from those belonging to the gruff-looking old fart that smells of chicken soup, stood too close behind me. I remember the washing powder as I glance down at my low-cut jumpsuit – the only item of clothing I could find this morning that didn’t require washing – deciding against hurrying down the aisle to grab a box and holding the queue up.

  ‘That’ll be £118.57 please,’ says the cashier.

  I slide my card into the machine, distracted by a familiar car pulling into a space at the front of the supermarket. ‘Your card has been declined. Do you have another one you can try?’

  Try? It’s not a fucking game show.

  I remove the card, take a different one from my purse, shove it into the machine, and tap in the pin number.

  The shop assistant frowns. ‘That one too, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose y—’

  ‘I’ve got about thirty more, but I don’t intend to stand here and try them all. Your machine is obviously broken.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, lengthening out the word as though she’s being asked to go above and beyond her job description of sitting on a stool and hitting a few buttons with her pound shop gel-painted nails, clicking out a rhythm that almost causes my hands to involuntarily reach up and strangle her.

  ‘Support required at till number four please?’ she calls out through the microphone, her bimbo-voice echoing across the spacious shop and hitting the ears of the youngest, spottiest assistant manager – according to his nametag – I’ve ever had the displeasure of speaking to.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he says in a high-pitched, boyish voice.

  ‘Your card reader isn’t working.’

  ‘I’ll fix this, Stella.’ He plants a hand on the shop assistant’s till and rubs his crotch against the back of her chair to take the third card I’m willing to try before giving up from my hand.

  The woman behind Mr Chicken Soup sighs, the two men behind her share an eye-roll.

  ‘Insufficient funds,’ says Mr Spotty-face, wearing a false smile.

  He has a sheen of sweat building on his upper lip that makes me heave. I feign a coughing fit and turn my sight back to the car park to watch the male driver vacate the vehicle I recognise and head towards the supermarket entrance.

  ‘Forget it.’ I grab the now sticky card off Mr Spotty-face and envision him wanking himself off at the back of the storage depot, cleaning his hands on a wet wipe from a packet he keeps inside his locker, leaving his hands damp when he’s forced to assist the cashiers on the shop floor. I feel the bile rise to my throat.

  ‘Don’t worry about the food. We’ll return it to the shelves for you as a goodwill gesture.’

  I head for the exit.

  ‘Bethan!’ A shrill voice drills through my head.

  I pause, paint on a subtly surprised expression and turn around to see Roberta unhook her arm from Gerald’s and wave at me.

  He gently touches her elbow and whispers into her ear. She lowers her arms and strolls over to me, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed.

  ‘Don’t show your husband up.’

  She grins.

  ‘He’s let you off your leash?’

  ‘Don’t,’ she says, slapping me lightly on the shoulder. Her eyes dart from her husband then back to me. ‘I promise not to make a spectacle of myself like last time.’

  ‘The party?’

  ‘You didn’t get too drunk, did you?’

  ‘Oh, no…’

  Coked-up.

  ‘You held your composure well despite being pissed out of your skull and having the lips of a blowfish.’

  Roberta gasps and presses the back of her hand to her mouth then cackles. ‘Oh, you’re so funny.’

  ‘Bertie?’ Gerald calls from a few yards away, pointing at the trolley he no doubt expects her to push round the shop.

  ‘Alright,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘Don’t keep him waiting.’

  The shock of my unfiltered words split Roberta’s lips apart into a wide grin.

  Gerald is at her side in an instant. He gives me a wry smile. ‘Bethan,’ he nods in greeting.

  I smile to reciprocate the endearment. ‘How are you both keeping?’

  ‘Good. We’ve just returned from a visit to our villa.’

  ‘The one in France?’

  ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘Isn’t it cold there?’

  ‘No worse than here at this time of year. I wanted to collect the last of the wine from the vineyard. We’re clearing the place out, to sell.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

  He shrugs. ‘Holiday lets aren’t money magnets, and we’re of an age now where we must start living sensibly. Cut down on the number of holidays we take each year for instance.’

  I nod, not sure how else to respond.

  ‘Humphrey wanted some Pinot Noir. I’ll bring some crates over?’

  I smile evasively. ‘It’s lovely to see you both but I must dash. I’m in rather a hurry.’

  ‘See you tonight,’ says Roberta.

  Gerald spots the confusion on my face which I manage to reign in before his wife notices.

  ‘Dinner,’ he says. ‘7 p.m.’

  ‘She doesn’t need reminding, Gerry. Bethan is a marvellous hostess. Her culinary skills are the best.’

  ‘Far greater than your attempts,’ he laughs.

  I feel my muscles clench. His voice fades and I find myself staring at his fat pompous mouth spouting misogynistic shite that I fear Roberta’s self-esteem is so low she no longer hears.

  Gerald stops talking, glances down at my empty hands and gives me a questioning look. ‘You’re not carrying any shopping.’

  ‘I’m getting it delivered.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the car?’

  ‘It got hit.’

  ‘Ah, that explains why I didn’t see it parked out there,’ he says, motioning to the exit.

  ‘Uh, yes.’

  ‘Humphrey’s collecting you?’

  ‘Um, no. I’m getting a lift from… oh, there she is.’ I raise a hand and wave at an elderly woman whose typically British reaction is to wave back then appear confused as she tries to work out who I am.

  Gerald looks amused but Roberta, embarrassed that I’ve witnessed such an intimate act of sexism pass between them, can barely look me in the eye.

  ‘I’d better go. See you both later.’

  I glance over my shoulder as I make my way over to the hire car to ensure Gerald isn’t watching to see me unlock the door, sit, belt up and start the engine. As I reverse out of the parking space, my eyes on the side mirror, the registration plate on the front of the vehicle I recognised before I spotted Gerald and Bethan comes into full view. I slam my foot down onto the brake so hard the discs squeal.

  The black Jaguar directly behind me wears the letters: GTY. It’s the car that sped off ahead of me when I left the National Slate Museum three days ago in Llanberis.

  DI LOCKE

  Then

  Craig was right when he said I’d know evil when I saw it.

  As Rick stared at me across the coffee table I felt as if he was peeling layers off me. And that was before he spoke. ‘Emma.’

  I didn’t like the sound of my name on his lips.

  ‘Hello, Mr Kiernan.’

  Recognition dawned on his face. ‘You were at the trial, Inspector Locke.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘DCI Evans is your boss?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘That’s correct, yeah. Well, you certainly sound intelligent, Detective. So tell me w
hy you need my help.’

  I didn’t, of course. Giving information pertaining to an ongoing investigation to a suspect would make sure anything he told me about Jane Doe would jeopardise the entire case and end my career. Instead I asked if he could tell me anything that might help me to understand him, the crimes he was convicted for, in the hope of furthering my understanding and inform my future work.

  He volunteered a lot of information I already knew and was surprisingly honest in his responses. Which is why when he said the women he was convicted for killing were the only ones he’d killed I suspected he might be telling the truth.

  I left HMP Berwyn feeling deflated. But as I crossed the car park, hidden from view of the open windows of the prison that looked even from the outside like a hotel, my despondent mood turned to elation.

  Craig was leaning against the side of my car, hands in the pockets of his jeans, wearing a huge grin. ‘I was visiting my cousin.’

  MELANIE

  Then

  Things had been going well. So well in fact that perhaps that’s why I was so pessimistic. Knowing how my mother’s relationships had ended I’d convinced myself my own wouldn’t last. I was too busy searching for faults that I missed what was right in front of me.

  The door closed on the whistling wind. Brandon shook off his rain-soaked jacket and dumped his shoes beneath the coat hooks in the narrow hallway. He swept through the house, deposited his wallet and keys on top of the kitchen counter and bent to kiss me. Rivulets of water ran onto his mouth from his wet hair and his stubble grazed my forehead as I turned fractionally so that he almost face-planted the stove where I stood stirring a pan of creamy peppercorn and garlic sauce, watching the simmering potatoes in the other.

  ‘What have I done now?’ he said.

  ‘What haven’t you done?’

  ‘Why are you still mad at me?’

  ‘Hah,’ I huffed and pulled the wooden spoon from the pan so fast it sprayed boiling hot sauce across his arm.

  ‘Shit!’ He turned sharply away and ran his arm beneath the cold tap. ‘What’s got into you?’ he winced.