‘Hanna Chivers? Yeah, I remember her from the trial.’
‘What did you make of her?’
He shrugs. ‘Look, I’m not here to defend what Jamie did. It was out of order, he’s banged up, end of. And I’m not one to speak ill of the dead either. But she was a bit of a piece, was Hanna. So far as I could see.’ He looks at Frankie, gives a wink. ‘And I saw you say your bit on the news, slagging off some blogger who said the same, but doesn’t mean it’s not true, just because you don’t like a guy’s turn of phrase.’
At the mention of the blog, Frankie feels her face flush red. She feels suddenly naked and hemmed in, conscious of all the equipment surrounding her, the images of her Grant might have in his head. ‘Have you read the blog?’ she says, her voice coming out sharper than she intended.
A smile flickers at the edge of his mouth. ‘Might have done. Hard to say. I read a lot online.’
She’s seized by the urge to stride over and shake him, demanding if it’s him, or if he knows who’s behind it, but before she can follow up with another question, Zara butts in. ‘It’s called Killing Cuttlefish,’ she says. ‘Pretty vile site. I’m sure you’d remember it, if you came across it. Very unusual name.’
Frankie glances at her in surprise. She hadn’t expected Zara to slap their cards on the table quite so openly. Grant’s smile fades. ‘Really? I’d have thought you ladies were all in favour of free speech. Regardless of how “vile” it is,’ he says, making quote marks round the word. ‘After all, some of the stuff printed about Donnie in the MSM was more than “vile”, it’s probably stuffed up his chance of a fair trial.’
‘But it’s like you said earlier, no point being hypocritical,’ says Zara. ‘If it’s vile to slander Donald Emneth, it’s vile to do it to Hanna Chivers, don’t you think?’
Grant’s knee is jigging up and down on the bench press. ‘No, it’s not the same. You have to look at where the power is. Hanna had all the might of the courts and the police behind her. Donnie’s just out there on his own. Hung out to dry. Hated. It’s not the same at all.’
Frankie isn’t quite sure what courtrooms Grant has been in, where victims hold all the cards, but it’s not reminiscent of any trial she’s sat through. The longer they spend chatting to him, the more his world view seems similarly skewed to that of Feminazi Slayer, and yet she feels that it can’t be him. His voice just doesn’t feel similar to the one that’s been going round and round in her head. ‘If we did have you on the programme,’ she says, ‘how would you feel about the fact the victims’ families would be talking too? That’s presuming Donald Emneth is convicted.’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘It wouldn’t change what you had to say?’ Frankie says. ‘I mean, wouldn’t it make you uncomfortable knowing they were watching?’
‘I’ve got a thick skin,’ he says. ‘Cathy Spencer’s family are always slagging me off. Never stopped me telling the truth before.’
This isn’t what Frankie meant at all. There’s a moment when nobody seems to know what to say, then she and Zara look at each other. ‘Well, it’s been very helpful meeting you . . .’ Zara begins, as they both rise from the sofa.
‘Is that it then?’ Grant says, staying where he is. ‘All this way for that? Aren’t you going to give me some sort of guarantee you’ll have me on the programme?’
‘It doesn’t quite work that way,’ Zara says, inching past the exercise bike, before tripping on a dumbbell. She steadies herself, but yelps as Frankie bowls into her ankles.
Grant shakes his head at them, then stands up with a sigh. ‘Well, I hope you pair are who you say you are,’ he follows as they clamber past all the equipment to reach the door. ‘That this wasn’t some bogus visit. If you print anything defamatory about me, my lawyers will have you, I can promise you that.’ He winks, so Frankie guesses it’s meant to be a joke, though he doesn’t sound very jolly.
‘Mr Allen, you only have to turn your TV on at half past six to see me sitting in the studio of the Eastern Film Company,’ Zara replies. ‘There’s no question of us being imposters.’
‘And thank you again for your time,’ Frankie adds. ‘We do appreciate it.’ She’s already got one hand on the door, but Grant Allen barges in front of her before she can open it.
‘I’ll have that, thank you,’ he says, snatching the flier from her fingers. She stares at him in astonishment. ‘Cost me money to have them printed.’
Allen is grinning, his face inches from hers. She knows he must be trying to be funny but it’s such a sudden invasion of her personal space, she has the urge to shove him out of the way. ‘Let me past please,’ she says. Grant Allen steps back so she can open the door.
‘No need to be so touchy,’ he says. ‘Though I thought you were a slippery customer over the phone.’ He closes the door before either of them has a chance to reply.
There’s the sound of a key locking them out as soon as they step onto the crazy paving.
‘Good Lord,’ says Zara. ‘Absolutely barking.’
They make their way to the car and Zara starts up the engine. ‘Not now, Snoopy,’ she says crossly, as the Labrador yaps and leaps about the back seat with excitement. Frankie turns back to look at the house as the Peugeot drives off. ‘Is he watching us?’ Zara asks.
‘No.’
‘Probably knocking seven bells out of that punch-bag,’ she jokes. But neither of them laugh.
Ava
We hear his footsteps on the stairs, and look at each other in terror. Without saying anything, I yank Daisy onto her feet and we walk to the door. She stands in front, I’m just to the side, so I can grab him when it opens. I can see she’s shaking. I am too.
He stops outside the door. His breathing is heavy. ‘Nice plan, girls,’ he says. ‘But I have a gun.’ There’s silence. We look at each other, and I see my own confusion on her face. ‘You’re so fucking stupid. I’ve been listening to you. The room is bugged, bitches. I’ve got a nice little spy cam in there too, so I can watch you from home.’ Daisy’s mouth is half hanging open. ‘Did you honestly think I’d leave you both alone to plot? Especially after your little stunt, Ava.’ He laughs. ‘So, here’s how it’s going to go. As soon as I open this door, I’m firing the gun. If you girls want to survive I’d stand well back and away, or somebody’s head’s going to get blown off. Of course, I might hit one of you anyway, but you’ll have more of a chance if you move it. So on the count of five, four, three . . .’
Daisy and I run to the far side of the room, at an angle from the door. There’s an explosion as it swings open and a bullet ricochets off the wall. I don’t know where it ends up. We’re both unharmed and so, unfortunately, is he.
Fat Head slams the door shut with his foot. He’s wearing the familiar ski mask, the black gloves, and he’s holding a huge gun. It looks like an old hunting rifle, the sort I remember my grandfather keeping on his farm. There’s no sign of a bag of provisions.
‘Very touching, all your little stories,’ he says. ‘What lies you tell.’ He turns to Daisy. ‘You’re the worst. White guys not good enough for you? Dirty little slut. And I had no idea you were a fucking dyke, Ava, thanks for that extra information. Must have been Christmas for you here, a little girlfriend all tied up.’
I don’t reply. The thought of him listening, hearing all about Simon, Daisy’s wedding, my childhood with Matt, makes me feel hollowed out inside. And it’s obviously done nothing to activate the bastard’s non-existent empathy.
‘But there’s one thing Saint Daisy hasn’t told you, Ava. A nasty little secret. I’d be pretty worried if I were sharing a cell with her.’ Daisy looks at him in bewilderment. He stares back, clearly expecting her to understand, and becomes agitated when she says nothing. ‘Enough of this!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t just stand there like a couple of gormless cows.’ He points at Daisy. ‘You come here, lie face up on the floor.’ He gestures at his feet. She hesitates. ‘I said move!’
She leaves me and does as he asks. He
rests one foot on her neck, holding her head still with the toe of the other. ‘You.’ He points at me. ‘Come over here. Turn your back to me. One false move and I stamp out your girlfriend’s windpipe.’
I walk over and he ties up my hands, then slips something over my neck, I think it’s a piece of string. I shake my head violently, but it’s stuck there, loose and dangling from my throat. I hear a thump and a cry as he kicks Daisy. ‘Up you get, bitch.’
It’s a struggle for her to stand up with her hands tied, but she manages. We’re facing each other and I see her eyes widen when she sees whatever it is round my neck. ‘No!’ she gasps.
‘What is it?’ I say.
She doesn’t say anything, all I can see is the look of horror on her face.
‘Go on, tell Ava what it is.’ Still she says nothing and he points the gun at her head. ‘Tell her!’
Daisy looks at me, holds my eyes with hers. They’re shining with tears. I think she’s trying to tell me something, silently, but I don’t know what it is. ‘It’s a garrotte,’ she says.
I scream and try to shake it off my head, backwards and forwards, but it won’t budge. He laughs. ‘Shall we tell Ava your little secret now?’ he says. ‘Stop shaking your head like a crazy bitch!’ he snaps at me, swinging the gun round. With difficulty, I force myself to stand still. Terror has built a loud ringing in my ears and my chest is soaked with sweat. ‘Well, you’re obviously not going to tell her, so I will.’ He leans closer to me. ‘Daisy’s a murderess.’
There’s a pause while we both stare at him. I turn to Daisy. At first I see only confusion on her face, then a flash of fear. ‘You’re insane,’ she says.
‘Daisy doesn’t just bring lovely little babies into the world. She kills them.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘When that black bastard brings you a cup of tea in the morning, what does he say to you? Good luck killing babies today, darling!’
‘You’re a liar!’ she shouts.
‘Just because they’re small, doesn’t mean they’re not alive, that you’re not killing them.’
‘Abortion isn’t murder,’ I say, finally understanding.
‘No it couldn’t be, could it?’ He turns to me, spitting the consonants, venom in every word. ‘Because it’s something women do. Only men can be murderers. Women can kill as many babies as they fucking like and nobody bats an eye! That’s what you do on your ward, isn’t it? Getting the final say on who lives and who dies, like a coven of fucking witches.’
‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Daisy says. I can’t tell if her voice is so low from fear or anger.
‘It’s not murder,’ I say. For a moment I imagine running through the arguments, telling him that it’s a pregnancy, not a baby, before being hit by the utter futility of trying to convince this man of anything. I look at his hated puffball face. ‘It’s not,’ is all I say.
‘So, you’re really confident Daisy’s not a killer,’ he replies, circling us both. My legs start shaking. ‘We’ll see about that.’ He stops next to Daisy, raises the gun so that its muzzle is pointing at the back of her head. He holds it with one hand, reaching into his pocket with the other, bringing out a knife. ‘Ava can tell you my finger’s on the trigger,’ he says, leaning closer to her. ‘And both you bitches know it works and it’s loaded. So don’t try anything.’ He cuts the cable ties round her wrist with the knife. ‘Walk towards Ava. Go on,’ he says, shoving the gun against her. ‘Don’t make me say it twice.’
I walk backwards as they head towards me, I can’t help it. I hit the wall with a thump, my hands scraping the concrete. I know without checking that I’m standing against The Stain. He’s forced her to stand really close to me, so close I can’t move. Daisy is not looking at me; her eyes are fixed at the side of my shoulders, on the wall. I can see she’s crying even though she’s not making a sound. Behind her, he is clutching the gun, grinning.
‘Daisy,’ I say.
She raises her eyes to mine. We’re staring at each other, and I realise I have nothing I can say to her. I can’t plead for my life. It would mean her blood on my face as he blows off her head. Her grey eyes, which I thought were so beautiful, will be the last thing I see.
‘So, you’re not a killer, Daisy Meadwell,’ he says. ‘That’s what you say, but I know you better. Now. I want you to tighten the garrotte around Ava’s neck.’ I try to move to the side, but he pushes her towards me with the gun. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he snaps. ‘From this distance I can kill you both at once. Take hold of the cord.’
Up until the point her hand moves to take the string, some part of me had been unable to believe this was really happening, but now it’s all moving too quickly, and I have to make it stop. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ I gabble, trying to look him in the eye, desperate to make him feel something. ‘Please. We can talk, can’t we? There’s so much more to say to each other. You don’t want to do this, you don’t. You can’t want to do this.’ I’m crying so much I can hardly get the words out. ‘Think about Hanna, think how you miss Hanna.’
‘I miss Hanna, you stupid bitch, because I miss killing her. I miss snuffing her miserable little life out.’
Daisy has tightened the garrotte, not enough so that it hurts, but enough that I’m terrified she’s actually going to do it. I thrash about, and instantly she lets go. ‘I can’t do this,’ she wails. ‘I can’t, I can’t!’
‘Yes, you can,’ he says, soothingly. ‘Go on. Think of Simon. This is the only way you’re ever going to see him again.’
She looks at me. I see resolve stiffen her face and I start to scream. But then, instead of taking hold of me again, she flings herself backwards. The gun goes off, but she’s knocked it wide and the bullet hits the wall. She’s grappling with him, both hands round his wrist, trying to make him drop it. With his free hand, he’s grabbed the back of her head. It happens so fast, shock freezes me to the spot.
‘That’s not who I am!’ she’s screaming. ‘That’s not who I am!’
With a single violent twist, he turns her head. I hear a snap. Daisy falls to the floor, crumpling at an unnatural angle. She’s lying at his feet. His chest is rising and falling with exertion, but she’s lying there completely still.
He turns to face me, raising the gun to point at my face. ‘Guess it’s just you and me,’ he says.
I want to scream but I can’t make a sound. My eyes meet the two black holes of his gun, and I’m mesmerised by its malignant stare. I can’t even drag my eyes down towards where Daisy is lying on the floor. I’m afraid if I blink he will shoot me.
‘I’m kind of glad, even if it’s not what I planned. You were definitely my favourite.’ I’m aware of him nudging Daisy with his foot but I can’t look down at her. ‘Not going to say anything, then?’
Words try to force themselves into my mouth, heaved there by a bubble of air from my lungs, but the only sound that comes out is a gagging noise. I start to whine, a barely human sound. I can’t speak even though my life depends on it.
‘That’s better!’ he says. ‘That’s what I like to see! It’s what my experiment’s all about.’ He strides towards me, still pointing the gun at my head, and I collapse onto the floor like a rag doll. I feel like I’ve been cut off at the knees. He bends over me, the gun tucked under his arm, and drags me back onto my feet, holding me at arm’s length. I know if he lets go I will fall. ‘You’re covered in cracks, Ava,’ he says. He sounds excited, his breath is fast and shallow and his lips, close to my face, are moist. ‘Absolutely covered in cracks. Just a few more blows with the chisel and you’re going to shatter all over my hands.’ He lets go suddenly and I collapse again, scraping my shin on the concrete. ‘That’s right!’ he says. ‘Smash!’ He walks over to where Daisy is lying and kicks her. ‘Smash! Just like the other one. Like all the other ones. You’re just like all the others, Ava.’ He tilts his round head, staring at me where I’m lying on the floor. ‘In fact I don’t think I’m going to call you Ava any
more. You can be Hanna. You’re more like Hanna than Ava now anyway.’ He bends down, carefully placing the gun down behind him on the concrete. ‘I’m breaking you in, Hanna. You’re not going to fight me any more, are you? So you won’t need these.’ He takes the knife out of his pocket and cuts the cable ties around my wrists. Released from their restraints, my hands fall limp to the ground. He picks up the gun and stands up, then walks to the door.
‘Night, night, Hanna,’ he says, turning to look at me again. ‘Have fun with Daisy. Don’t stay up too late talking together, will you?’
There’s a scrape and a clang as he shuts the door behind him. Then the sound of the bolt and his receding footsteps.
The silence in the basement is absolute. Daisy’s body is a crumpled shape at the edge of my vision. I still can’t look at her. I struggle with the garrotte around my neck, trying not to think that her hands only just touched it, or the price she paid for letting go. Only when it’s off do I allow myself to look at her and truly understand what I see. She’s not moving.
‘Daisy?’ I say softly. ‘He’s gone. You can get up now.’ I know in my heart she can’t hear me, I know she’s dead, but I’m so desperate for her to be alive that I go through with the make-believe, trying to fool myself for another few minutes. I shuffle over to her on my knees. Her face is turned away from me, her head at a strange angle. I push aside thick curls, feeling for a pulse at her neck. I can’t bring myself to smooth the hair from her face, or look at her eyes.
There’s nothing, but I hold my finger there a long time. ‘Maybe I can feel it better in your wrist,’ I say, my voice wobbling. I pick up her hand. It’s heavy and slack in mine, the skin already going cold. I press my finger against the soft hollow by the bone, willing a faint pulse into existence, but I can’t feel anything. I sit back on my haunches and gently pull her head and shoulders across my lap. Her neck feels loose as I move her. When I’m holding her gathered against me, I finally dare to smooth the hair from her face. Her eyes stare upwards at nothing.
The Death Knock Page 25