Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  My ears rang, but I could hear Phil all right, though he spoke quietly.

  “Next time I won’t shoot to miss. At this range, it’ll take your head off. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not prepared to do that. An over-reaction to a pair of intruders in the middle of the night…any jury would sympathize. Shut the window, Miss Tallis.”

  I hesitated, then did as he said. If only I’d run - I’ve just blown our best chance. If I’d got away, he wouldn’t have dared to shoot Ric.

  Phil said, and I could see he really meant it, “You remember the day you officially died, Ric? There was a moment, while I waited for you to swim to the boat, when it occurred to me I could start the engine, and leave you to drown, and no one would be any the wiser. I didn’t decide fast enough. Paula would have had to be told you were dead. I was still weighing it up when you hauled yourself over the side, water streaming off you on to the deck, and it was too late. Unfortunately. It would have saved me a lot of trouble. And your friend, too.”

  “You’ve only got one shot left.” Ric was breathing fast. “Which of us would it be?”

  Phil Sharott paused before he answered, deliberately, “Miss Tallis, I’m afraid.”

  Ric bent and picked up the folder, slowly. “Kill us and you’re fucked, Phil. So’s Emma. You’ll have the police swarming all over you, and they won’t believe a word you say. The press’ll have a field day, too. Killing a world-famous rock star, whose fortune you inherited? Who just happened to break into your house? Try it and see where it gets you.”

  The corners of Phil’s mouth lifted. I wouldn’t call it a smile. Below his eye, a muscle twitched. “That’s certainly a point. But on reflection, there would be no requirement to inform the police. What you seem to be forgetting, Ric, is that you’re dead. No one’s going to come looking for you.”

  “They’ll come looking for me,” I said, my voice louder than I expected. “Because I left a note of where I was going” - don’t mention James, he might kill him too - “with my lawyer. The diamonds and Euros, as well. And the passport.”

  Phil considered me. “I don’t think you have. What lawyer? The one who did the conveyancing on your studio? Hardly. I’m reasonably confident that if I have a good look in your flat, I’ll find those diamonds. Now Ric does have a lawyer - me.”

  Oh God. He meant it. He was going to kill us both. I tried to bargain with him. “Let us go, and Ric will go abroad. I won’t tell a soul, I promise. If you kill us, like Ric said, you’re quite likely to get caught. It’s not worth it.”

  “I think you could be wrong there, Miss Tallis,” Phil said judicially. His colour had returned, and with it his customary manner. He might have been discussing a case with a colleague, not murder with his prospective victims. “From an objective standpoint, considering what is involved, it would be worth it. Whereas I have grave doubts as to whether your word is to be trusted. It seems probable you are, quite cynically, offering a promise you have no intention of keeping.”

  The door behind Phil opened. Emma stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. With eyes wide and no makeup, she looked about sixteen. Still beautiful, though. She wore a cream negligee whose lace and ruffles definitely did not come from Marks & Spencer, and bare feet, with pearly nail varnish on the toenails. Her lips parted as she stared at Ric. He scowled. She moved towards Phil.

  “He’s not dead.”

  “Emma, go upstairs. Leave this to me.” Phil hardly looked at her, and he kept the shotgun pointing at Ric.

  “What happened? I heard the gun go off. Did you know he was alive?” She gazed at him. “You knew…and you didn’t tell me.”

  “Emma, please, we can talk about this later.”

  Her big hazel eyes turned to me. “Vikki - what are you doing here?”

  “Hi Emma,” I said. “I’m being held at gunpoint by your boyfriend. Any chance of getting him to put it away?”

  “Phil, why is Vikki here?”

  “Her name’s not Vikki. She’s not a journalist. She lied to you. She’s Ric’s girlfriend. Let me handle it.”

  “I’m Caz Tallis,” I said.

  Emma looked at me uncertainly, then her eyes went round the room, taking in the computer, the damaged drawer, the assortment on the desk. She got to the pink folder in Ric’s hand.

  “What’s that? What’s he holding?”

  “Please, Emma, it’s not important, go to bed.” Phil’s tone was pleading.

  “Yeah, Emma, you fuck off to bed,” Ric said, loudly. “It’s nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Much better forgotten. After all, Bryan’s dead, isn’t he? Nothing’s going to change that. Except he was my best friend, and it matters to me who killed him.”

  “You’ll keep quiet if you know what’s good for you,” said Phil.

  “Or else you’ll shoot me?” Ric said, “Caz, he’s only got one bullet left. Run while he’s reloading, but be quick, it takes seconds. Ring the police. Don’t worry about me.” I nodded. I would do it for him.

  Ric turned to Emma. She backed away. His voice rang with anger and contempt. “I’ll tell you what I think happened, shall I, the day Bryan died?” She stared at him but didn’t answer. “When he came home, that sunny April morning three years ago, he must have heard you immediately, because if you remember you were making quite a lot of noise. Not help-me-I’m-being-raped noises, but shrieks of enthusiasm. ‘Oh, Ric, yes,’ that sort of crap. No mistaking it.”

  “You’re lying,” said Phil. “It was rape. Bryan misunderstood what he saw, that’s all, he got it wrong. He wouldn’t let Emma explain.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you’d like to believe, isn’t it Phil? Stop kidding yourself. Bryan got it absolutely right.” Ric’s gaze fastened on Emma once more. “He went for me, and I deserved it. He hated me for what I’d done. But I reckon, after I left, he started thinking about how you’d screwed his best mate the minute his back was turned. He worked out what a cheap tramp you are. He’d had it with you. He got all your stuff out of the cupboards, clothes, shoes, jewellery, the lot, and tipped them in a heap in the hall. My guess is he was going to put it in bin bags and chuck it out. But before he could do that, you came back.”

  Emma stood, pale, mesmerized, Ophelia to Ric’s Hamlet.

  “Bryan told you it was over. You tried telling him I raped you, and that just made him angrier, because he’d seen what happened with his own eyes, and you were lying about his friend. You and Bryan had a huge bust-up. You saw everything you’d got vanishing - your status as Bryan’s girlfriend, the boost to your career, the song he was going to write for you, even your credibility with Phil, all of it was going down the plughole. So you lost it. You stuck a knife in him. Then you panicked, and who did you ring for help? Phil. Faithful Phil, who’d been cheating on my sister for years with you, who you only dumped because Bryan seemed a better bet. You knew Phil was besotted with you, that he’d arrange a cover-up, find a fall-guy. The obvious one. Me. Phil came round, put your things back in the cupboard, tidied the flat, while you showered Bryan’s blood off and changed your clothes. He put the cut-off feet from a pair of your tights over his hands so he didn’t leave fingerprints. Then he left, discreetly, and you called the police like you’d just found Bryan.”

  There was a long, strange silence. Ric said, more quietly,

  “I suppose you might just be interested that your boyfriend kept a memento of the murder, and took a few photos.” Emma’s eyes switched to Phil. Phil’s mouth opened, but Ric hadn’t finished. “I wonder why he did that? Is it because, though he’ll never admit it, he knows you’re a lying, murderous, cheating little bitch with the morals of a whore, and he thought he might need a hold over you?” Ric held out the folder to her. “D’you want to see them?”

  Above the cream lace, the swell of Emma’s breasts lifted and fell with her quickened breathing. She walked towards Ric, avoiding getting between him and the shotgun. She took the folder.

  “Emma…” Phil sounded agonized. “Don’t li
sten to him, leave it on the desk, I can explain…”

  Emma sat on the chesterfield, lifted the pink card flap and took out the blouse. After a moment she put it down, drew out the photographs, and stared at them one by one. She raised her head towards Phil, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Beside me, I could sense Ric, still and concentrated like a cat watching a bird, his muscles tense.

  “How could you do this to me?” A stray tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t understand…you must have taken these while I was in the shower, and you kept them all this time, and the blouse…why?” Emma’s voice was a whisper. “They’ll put me in prison for years, I’ll be old when I get out… I thought you loved me…”

  “I do love you.” His voice shook with naked emotion and sincerity, as though he and Emma were alone. “I know it makes no sense, I shouldn’t have done it, I don’t know what was going through my mind. I was so afraid you’d leave me. But I’ll make it all right, I swear I will, trust me.”

  For the first time, he looked her full in the face, and the gun barrel drooped. Faster than I’d have believed possible, Ric launched himself across the room. Phil’s head snapped towards him. Just as Ric reached him and knocked the barrel up, he pulled the trigger.

  There was a great bang, a crash as the light fitting exploded and smashed to the ground, and the smell of gun smoke in the sudden darkness.

  For a few long seconds I froze, unable to see anything, my ears ringing. A volley of thuds and grunts indicated a vicious fight the other side of the room. Please God, let Ric beat Phil… I heaved up the sash window to leave like Ric had told me to, then had a thought and groped for his phone, on the desk where Phil had made him put it. I was still feeling around when the place lit up. Emma, the other side of the desk from me, had switched on the green glass lamp. Her eyes hard, her colour high, she’d morphed from Ophelia into Lady Macbeth. On the carpet, the two men grappled and punched among fragments of glass, metal and plaster, the gun beside them. This time, Phil was fighting back. I saw Phil’s landline, grabbed the receiver and dialled 9, 9… Emma seized the wrecking bar and smashed the phone, missing my hand by millimetres, then darted towards the scrum on the floor.

  As her arm went back, I yelled, “RIC!” and vaulted over the desk, scattering my belongings. Ric heard me and rolled to one side as the steel bar swung at his head. He didn’t move far enough - the blow connected with a thud. Anger and fear fizzed through me. Emma raised the bar to hit him again, and I shot across the room, caught my foot in a branch of the chandelier and crashed to the floor. I jumped up and lunged at her - we toppled together, with me landing on top.

  I went for the wrecking bar, but Emma hung on. I grasped it and thumped it repeatedly to the ground, bashing her hand. We struggled, Emma intent on getting me off her, while I tried to put her out of action. I was fitter, faster, and better dressed for combat. I was fighting for my life, and Ric’s; she was fighting for her freedom. When her nails went for my eyes, I dumped any lingering inhibitions. If I’d had a knife, I’d have sunk it between her ribs. Her warm body reeked of expensive perfume, the cream silk slithered and tore under me. I grabbed her hair and banged her head on the floor. She got hold of my fingers and bent them back. It really hurt. I head-butted her, hoping to break her nose, but missed as she turned sideways. Part of me couldn’t believe I was doing this.

  Emma got sole possession of the wrecking bar and tried to crack my skull, but with no space to swing it she wasn’t able to hit hard enough. Ric and Phil had gone quiet, but now I heard heavy breathing behind me, crisp clicks and something small and solid hitting the carpet. Someone was reloading the shotgun. I had a bad feeling it wasn’t Ric. No leisure to look. Hurry. I twisted Emma’s wrist savagely, and kneed her in the stomach. She screamed. I yanked the bar from her hand and jumped backwards, colliding with someone - aftershave, not Ric, Phil - jabbed my elbow hard into his ribs, then something went over me so I couldn’t see - his dressing gown, muffling me and pinning my arms. Frantic, I kicked back at his groin. I got him, I know I did, but while I was blind and off balance he shoved me to the floor, and Emma sat on me.

  The rip of tape. My duct tape. As used by American criminals, because you can’t work your way out of it like you can with rope. I bucked, wriggled and kicked. It was no use. I couldn’t beat two of them from where I was, though God knows I tried, because Phil wouldn’t be doing this if he intended me to survive. As they got the upper hand, disbelief and dismay possessed me; except dismay is too weak a word. It was a dark triple-distilled essence of dismay I was experiencing, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. When he’d taped my wrists and ankles, with three or four layers of tape, Emma got up.

  Phil’s voice, hoarse and concerned. “Are you hurt? I had to reload in case Ric surfaced.”

  “Just bruised and upset. My hand’s a bit painful.”

  “My poor Emma. I’ll see to it in a minute. You were magnificent. Ric’s out cold. You hit him in the nick of time. He’d have throttled me, but for you.”

  More tape ripping. He was securing Ric. I heard the safe combination click, then a faint rattle. The drugs. He was going to kill us now, inject us with a lethal overdose.

  “It’s no good,” I said hopelessly, through folds of dressing gown into the carpet, “it’s pointless, you won’t get away with it. Bryan was manslaughter, this’ll be first degree murder.”

  I could tell Phil was addressing me, as his voice was dispassionate, quite unlike the way he spoke to Emma. “First degree murder features in the Criminal Code of Canada, not this country. Here we only have one crime of murder: that is, unlawfully killing another person, with the intention to kill or to cause grievous bodily harm. It may be, however, that diminished responsibility or provocation reduces the crime to manslaughter.”

  Perhaps the legal technicalities helped him to distance himself from what he was about to do. I tried again.

  “Whatever it is, it’s just stupid, it’s crazy, you’ll do life for this, both of you.” Tears filled my eyes and I fought to gain control. I didn’t want them to know I was crying. “If Emma confesses to manslaughter, it’ll be a few years in prison, that’s better for her than being involved in three murders, surely? Two of them premeditated?” No response. It’s difficult to be persuasive when you are lying on the floor, tied up, with your head muffled in someone else’s dressing gown. My voice sounded strained, ineffectual, as I said, “You’re a lawyer, why can’t you see that?”

  “Really, Miss Tallis, I don’t require your approval for my plans.”

  Phil pulled the dressing gown off my head and moved away. I craned over my shoulder to see what he was doing. He swept everything off the desk into a leather waste-paper bin, and picked up the things that had fallen to the floor, then walked with Emma to the door. With him he took the bin, the gun and the white box. Stupid relief that I was not to die immediately flooded through me.

  Before the door shut I heard Emma say, very quietly, “What will you do?”

  It worried me that Phil didn’t lower his voice as she had. “Leave it to me. You don’t need to know anything about it. I’m going to take you upstairs to bed now. You go to sleep, and in the morning they’ll be gone. Within twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, everything will be back to normal.”

  The door closed behind them. A key turned in the lock.

  Chapter

  27

  *

  Oh God, oh God…this was my fault, I should have persuaded Ric not to come, made him ring the police, I knew Phil was dangerous. I should have run away when Phil fired the gun. Without my wrecking bar, Emma wouldn’t have had a weapon. I’d brought the tape just so Phil could tie us up with it…

  Get a grip.

  James would get my note in the morning. He went running first thing each Sunday - maybe as early as seven-thirty, eight o’clock. I knew he’d go directly to my flat, read the file and ring the police. They’d take him seriously, everyone knows immediately James is on the level, and come straight here, arriving…betw
een eight and eight-thirty, with luck. It must now be around three-thirty. Four and a half to five hours - if we lasted that long, we’d probably make it. Given our current situation, that seemed an impossible length of time for us to survive.

  Phil had said, “In the morning they’ll be gone.” Dear God.

  I curled on my side, sat up, and shuffled on my bottom towards Ric. His eyes were shut, his lips slightly apart, a thread of blood congealing on his pale forehead. I nudged his shoulder with my knee. “Ric… Ric!”

  His head lolled a little to one side, no other reaction. There was a soggy red mess in his hair. A hot wave of panic swept over me. Suppose he had brain damage, with pressure building up inside his skull? Suppose he was dying? He needed to go to hospital. Maybe I could pick up a bit of broken glass - my fingers could function even though my wrists were tied behind me - and cut him free - but without him directing me, it would take forever, and I wouldn’t be able to move him, nor would he be able to free me.

  I tried to get my hands in front of me, threading my body through my arms. The hero of The Danger did this with handcuffs, but it proved impossible with taped wrists.

  Get help. The phone demolished by Emma lay in pieces, Phil had taken Ric’s mobile…I couldn’t climb out of the window…then I had an inspiration.

  The computer!

  It was still on, humming softly, though the screen had gone black. I pulled myself across the carpet over to the desk, and knelt in front of the keyboard. I pressed Web/Home with my nose. Easy. Phil’s homepage appeared, Financial Times markets and a Google toolbar at the top; I’d Google police… No cursor. I pushed the optical mouse around with my chin, then realized I needed to left-click. Got it. I nudged it up, overshot, brought it back using the underside of my chin. Overshot. While moving it, I couldn’t see the screen. It was difficult to shift it in tiny enough increments, difficult to control my fear and impatience and make myself do it gradually, as precisely as possible.