The Beresford

by Will Carver

  It was a relief to see The Beresford. The driver’s seat was soaked in sweat, as was Gail’s back. She stretched her arms to the sky as she got out of the car, then locked it.

  Comfort soon gave way to fake panic about the phone she had never misplaced. She unlocked the front door, there was no sign of Aubrey but Gail kept up the pretence.

  She knocked on Mrs May’s door and the old lady answered within seconds. She handed Blair’s phone to Gail and told her to take it and get rid of it tomorrow with whatever packages she was taking.

  ‘And be careful. Your new housemate seems very inquisitive.’

  Gail nodded. She felt disgusting and she looked worse. She just wanted to be back in her place. Her light and airy apartment that didn’t have any body parts stacked in the corner, in a bedroom that didn’t smell like crisps and masturbation.

  Mrs May looked over her shoulder into her own apartment as though she might have company, then whispered to Gail, ‘Everything went okay?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  ‘No hiccups?’

  ‘No,’ Gail lied.

  ‘So, it is done.’

  It has started, Gail thought.

  She left her landlady to whatever she was doing before Gail had knocked and went back to her apartment, clutching Blair’s phone in her right hand as though it were her own and she had missed it like she had once missed her husband while he was overseas serving his country.

  Aubrey wasn’t watching.

  Gail stripped and showered. It was hot. Too hot. The entire room was filled with steam. She needed the heat to cleanse and she needed the power of the water to hit her back, stiff from sitting in the car for so long.

  She wrapped a small towel around her head and a larger one around her body. Her face was pink and she wondered whether she was so hot that she was actually sweating again. Once out in the hallway, the cold air hit. She felt refreshed. She lay on her bed and shut her eyes for a moment.

  The next day, she would head west with an arm, a thigh and a spine.

  EIGHTEEN

  Gail woke up early, still wrapped in the large towel, the smaller one had come undone and was beside her on the floor. She’d been sleeping better than ever since becoming homicidal.

  The sneaking around was not her favourite part of being a newly minted killer, and she wondered about those psychos she’d read about and seen in documentaries who seemed to thrive on destruction and gained some kind of gratification – usual sexual – from taking somebody’s life. What they didn’t show you was the work that goes in after the event.

  The tiptoeing.

  The lies.

  All that digging.

  It was no fun.

  Murder was not as glamorous as it looked.

  Her alarm clock read just before 7:00 am. If she got up and got dressed right away, maybe grabbed a piece of toast, she could go down to Abe’s place, pick up three pieces of his body and drive west. It probably wouldn’t take her as long as it had yesterday because she had more of an understanding of what hiding a body entailed.

  She could get back to The Beresford by lunch, butter another piece of toast, drink a vat of coffee, grab a few more limb pieces and head out east.

  Get the whole thing over with.

  She managed to eat, dress and straighten her hair by 7:20. A coffee would have been ideal, but Gail decided to get one on the road. Caffeine would be her fifty-mile reward and would keep her motivated. She was also limiting herself due to the avocado-sized life in her womb.

  It was probably too early for Mrs May. She was a woman who drank wine throughout the day and had an afternoon siesta; it didn’t seem right that she was also an early riser. Besides, she’d given her orders, it didn’t seem like she wanted Gail to run everything by her, just give Abe’s key back once he was gone. There shouldn’t be any need to sneak around The Beresford at that time in the morning.

  Get in. Get out. No looking back.

  Aubrey was downstairs. Gail could see her on the porch through the window.

  She was completely made up. Her hair was perfect. Not a crease in her skirt, jacket or blouse. She was flawless. Apart from the cigarette hanging from her lips. Gail thought Aubrey worked for herself from her office in The Beresford, so why the need to look like she was heading into a boardroom. Maybe it was to feel the part. Dress for success. She’d heard about people who made their bed every morning. Somehow it made them more successful. She couldn’t remember why. But she guessed that her perfectly coiffed housemate was also sporting a flat bedspread you could bounce a penny off.

  It was a spanner in Gail’s plan. Aubrey’s back was turned, one foot resting against the wall for balance, she looked out towards the skyscrapers and blew plumes of smoke in their direction. It wasn’t one of those idiotic vape things that Gail didn’t understand, either, it was a good old-fashioned cigarette. Gail could have snuck into Abe’s undetected but how would she get out and past Lady Lung Cancer with the body parts? The charity shop story wouldn’t work again.

  Haste and panic get you caught.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me.’ Aubrey took a long drag on her cigarette, presumably to calm her nerves.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just thought I’d come and say hello. I wasn’t expecting anyone up at this time.’

  ‘The early bird and all that. I’m sorry, I should move away, you shouldn’t be breathing this in, in your … condition.’

  Gail spotted that Aubrey had her bag and a laptop case with her. She must have been going somewhere.

  ‘That’s very kind, but don’t worry, I’m heading back in, just wanted to pop my head out for a second. Are you heading out to work?’ It all felt very natural to Gail, she should have been worried at the ease with which she managed to slip into deception, but she wasn’t analysing her own behaviour, she was getting the skinny on Aubrey.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve something of a brunch planned. I just thought I’d take some work into the city, get a read on the place, you know?’ Gail nodded as though she knew. ‘You don’t happen to know a place that does good coffee?’

  ‘I know two places. One does pretty terrible coffee but it’s friendly, the other does coffee that costs more than a hardback book and is pretty intimidating.’

  ‘Well, the second one sounds right up my alley.’ Aubrey spoke without a hint of irony and the complete absence of a smile. Gail gave her the details of the cafe then watched her stub out her cigarette and flick it out onto the wet grass. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Gail had no idea what that was in reference to.

  She watched the red hair blur into the distance then disappear around a corner. Then she ran inside, picked up three pieces of Abe and threw them into her car along with a bigger shovel, just in case.

  At fifty miles, she drank a coffee. She buried all three pieces in one hole this time, the shovel meant that she could go deep. She buried one piece, covered it with a few inches of soil, then placed the next piece on top and repeated. She was back by lunchtime. Toast wasn’t enough, so she opted for pitta bread and hummus. Then it was back to Abe’s, three more bits in the car and a journey in another direction. That affable little pervert was being spread far and wide.

  She was back before dinner and only felt half as worn out as the day before.

  Probably because she’d made her bed that morning.

  There were four pieces left, including Abe’s head, which she had been most worried about and had put off until the end.

  She felt like punching the air when she stepped back into The Beresford, but Aubrey, always-around Aubrey, was on the chair in the library. And she was drunk out of her mind.

  NINETEEN

  It felt like a set-up. Like some old white guy wanted to teach a young woman a lesson about business and how it should be conducted. He did this by conducting himself in a heinous and vengeful manner. To make his point as clear as possible.

  Aubrey had reached out to one of her father’
s long-time clients, Joseph Kirkly – Joe to his friends, Kirk to his closest friends. Her father made a lot of money from Kirk’s business and he’d also taken a fair amount in their monthly poker nights over the years. Kirkly had known Aubrey since she was a young girl in school. They’d arranged to meet for a brunch, as he was in the city on business, anyway.

  Things started off well enough. Small talk and pleasantries. Kirkly said something complimentary about Aubrey’s father and offered his condolences again, and she told Kirkly about The Beresford and the quirky old lady that ran the place. She also filled him in on how her mother was getting on. Boring and predictable stuff to break the ice.

  She explained that she was grateful for everything her father had taught her but wanted to make something on her own, see what she could accomplish without throwing the great Downes name around.

  ‘People will just be nice to me because I’m John Downes’ daughter, and I want to make my own mark, you know? Be respected for what I do, what I have achieved.’

  Old Kirkly turned. ‘He’s not even cold yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your father, an honourable, hardworking and honest man, you’ve only just put him in the ground. And you want some advice on how you can poach his best clients so that you can dismantle his organisation and call it your own?’

  ‘Wait. What? That’s not what I’m saying at all.’

  ‘What are you saying, then, Ms Downes? What are you going to do differently to your great father? What’s the USP for Aubrey Downes that is going to have people running in your direction? It sounds like you just want to set up the same company again and have it run alongside your father’s.’

  ‘No. I just wanted an informal chat. Pick your brains a bit. Catch up.’ She was flustered. She never should have used the word ‘chat’. She didn’t want to catch up. It was all falling away.

  ‘It feels underhand, Aubrey. Dirty. I could talk about this. I could make sure that nobody gives you a second thought.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ His comment had snapped Aubrey back into her hard-nosed self.

  ‘It’s a damn promise. My advice to you is to stop trying to be something that you’re not. Don’t try to emulate your father. Don’t try to beat him. He left you a company. Sit at the top of the table and play nice. Take the money. Let people be nice to you even when they can’t stand you.’ The venom in his eyes was frightening. Aubrey couldn’t understand what she had done so wrong.

  But she was not about to let some jumped-up little golf buddy pretend that he knew anything about her or her father.

  ‘Like my dad did to you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He couldn’t fucking stand you, “Kirky”. Thought you were dry and boring and God-awful at poker. He pretended to be your friend so we could hike up your premium every year, you fucking joke.’

  He was gobsmacked. And Aubrey could see that he looked hurt.

  Good.

  She couldn’t stop herself.

  ‘I know you’re tied in for another five years. My father was happy enough to do business over a handshake and a promise, but I made sure you signed a contract, because you’re slippery. My dad was a good guy, so now here is my promise to you: if you go around bad-mouthing me, you are going to see just how different I am to my wonderful dad, because I don’t care about you, “Kirky”. I don’t care for your character and I don’t care about your business. I’m going to do something of my own. But the next time you set foot in my father’s building, I will make sure that I am at the top of that table, and you can kiss my feet and pretend that you fucking like it.’

  Aubrey stood up, finished her drink and threw a few notes towards Joseph Kirkly.

  ‘Who said there’s no such thing as a free brunch, eh?’

  She left him at the table, agog. There was no way for him to reply. People on neighbouring tables were laughing at him. One group even cheered.

  Aubrey had either made the perfect power play, showed she was the boss, or her name was now dirt from here to home and beyond. She expected a call from her mother that same day.

  She’d lied. Her father and Kirkly went way back. They were friends. Close, even. She’d destroyed that twenty-five-year relationship with one false sentence. Aubrey looked to the sky and apologised to her dad. Then she told herself that what she had done was right. If she’d have backed down, if she’d have let that man bully her into submission, she’d have had no chance.

  Her response was a risk but risks have two outcomes.

  Surrender only has one.

  Then she lost four hours to a bar nearby and a whisky that only somebody with Downes money could afford to quaff.

  Still, she made it back to The Beresford but could not stomach the idea of climbing the giant staircase to her apartment. So she took a seat in the library and dropped her chin onto her chest.

  Two days and it was possible that Aubrey Downes was already dead in this town.

  TWENTY

  Mrs Conroy needed something to keep her on track. She was plugged into a morphine drip for the pain in her snapped legs, but there was only one thing that was going to soothe the pain in her heart at losing her husband so abruptly.

  She needed to hear a voice or see some kind of vision or witness words leap off the page of her Bible. It was not enough to have the thoughts and prayers of her friends. It didn’t hold up that her Lord worked in mysterious ways. Suddenly, that sounded like a cop out. What had Mr Conroy ever done that he would be taken in that way, never finding out what happened to his beloved daughter.

  The only part of her Christian faith about which she had remained sceptical was the idea that God would speak to a human. The only people she had ever seen say such a thing did not come across as genuine, or they were killers on trial stating on that holy book that God told them to do what they did. Even the greenest of Christians knew that God would never do such a thing.

  He would never tell a man to go out and murder fifteen prostitutes. That advice went against everything sacrosanct. Besides, God would not waste his time on one man’s killing spree when he had so many wars to handle.

  Thou shall not kill.

  An eye for an eye.

  If Mrs Conroy was not going to renounce the Lord, she would have to hear from Him directly.

  She remembered a sermon given when she was a similar age to Blair. One that had stayed with her. It regarded how a person would know that God was speaking into your heart, how you would know that it was God’s voice and not your own, or even the enemy.

  There were five questions that you had to answer yourself.

  1. Are His words in line with scripture?

  Mrs Conroy knew that if God were to talk to her, He would never ask her to do something that did not adhere to his Word. That’s why she didn’t buy what those serial killers were selling when they tried to blame her Lord for cutting someone’s head off or raping a swan.

  The trick was to read through scripture and see whether certain phrases jumped out at you. This may be His way of trying to communicate directly. Of course there is the danger that a person may pick out sections of the Bible that fit their situation. This is common in times of desperation.

  Nothing was jumping out at Mrs Conroy. They were printed words. Ink on a page. Nothing more.

  2. Is your heart open to God’s answer?

  This is more a question of how deep your love and faith for God goes. If you are ready to move in whichever direction God leads, you will hear Him. If you are still trying to provide the answers yourself, then this may be acting as a blockage. You have to check your heart and ensure that you are fully surrendered to God’s will rather than your own.

  The whole town was devout, on the surface at least, but Mrs Conroy lived by a strict Christian code. She had surrendered to the Lord from a young age. And she did not need to check her heart because she could feel that it had been broken. The only thing it had ever been open to, besides her husband and her daughter, was God.

  Wher
e was He now?

  3. Is it confirmed through Godly counsel and others around you?

  If you feel that a message is possibly coming through, it is worth finding someone in your life and community who holds faith as strongly as you do. It is also helpful if they are known for speaking wise words. Take your local pastor, counsellor or spiritual director. If you are finding it difficult to discern what God is trying to communicate to you, they may be of assistance. Share your story. Work together.

  Mrs Conroy’s problem was that the members of her community had already been in to visit. And they all had the same advice and whispered their words of hope and support. They told her that God was listening, that there was meaning behind this. Mrs Conroy was starting to realise that these were worthless platitudes. Worthless, still, because God wasn’t saying a fucking thing.

  4. Is it confirmed through other circumstances in your life?

  The third question feeds nicely into this one. It hints at the fact that God is all-knowing and his plan is greater than one incident. Mr Conroy overdosing on tree bark and his lungs tearing open against the inside of his splintered rib cage is but a footnote in this ongoing narrative. He sees all of our lives from birth to death, and His plan is vast and wide; it is more than we could ever imagine.

  That’s the spiel.

  So, the big guy might be placing a dream into your heart, and that is him working in your life to enable His plan. You have to be aware of the places where He is opening doors. There may be new people being brought into your life. The clues and the confirmations are there if you are open to the Lord.