by Holly Seddon
‘I would never hurt you,’ he says. ‘I love you, I mean, I’m starting to love you anyway. Even with your …’ – he takes a deep breath – ‘even with your past indiscretions.’
‘What indiscretions?’
Marianne is sitting on the floor of the office, as far from the door as possible, but now she crawls over, listens closely through the door. Surely he doesn’t know?
‘I know about your affair, Marianne, with your pupil. And it’s hard to look past it but I did. I would never have cheated on Louise, not ever, but perhaps our marriage was just stronger.’
‘How the hell do you … did Greg tell you? I didn’t cheat on him, I didn’t. Nothing happened until Greg had died. And that was just once. I’ve not seen him since and I wish I could take it back. But he wasn’t my pupil, I hadn’t taught him in years. He was an adult by then.’ She sounds frantic and she knows it. ‘I don’t have to explain any of this to you – bloody hell, this is nothing compared to what you did!’
‘I’m not sure your boss or his parents would feel the same,’ Noah says.
‘Stop trying to distract me!’ she shouts, pulling at her hair and standing up. Pressing her forehead to the door. ‘Why was I still on the list then, Noah?’ Marianne sobs.
‘What list?’
‘You know what list. A list of all the other “leaks” you needed to permanently plug in this fucking – this network you ran. This company!’
‘I didn’t run this, not really. I was like a project manager, I wasn’t the senior partner. You have to believe me. I was a victim too, I tried to stop it and they wouldn’t let me until they decided to move into a more lucrative business. Something I wanted nothing to do with.’
‘The Assassin Supermarket?’ she asks.
He doesn’t reply, just keeps begging. ‘You have to believe me, I was just a cog in the machine. Like Greg.’
‘So who was in charge then?’
She hears Noah cry out in frustration.
Sam
It’s a clean job but I don’t have long before his blood pools, his body stiffens and a tell-tale sheen emerges on his skin. I bend into a squat and try to warm up my muscles. I close my eyes and lean my head to the left and to the right. I crack my knuckles to release the pressure. OK, time to get to work.
Noah weighs far more than me but I’ve steadily built up my strength, and everything my dad taught me about weight distribution was not wasted. It’s all about leverage and pivot points. Which is why we can push far more weight sitting on the leg press at the gym than doing a front squat with the bar resting near our delicate collar bones. Joe would be proud. Of my powerlifting knowledge if nothing else.
Speaking of powerlifting, this spare room I’ve just dragged Noah Simpson into is an absolute treasure trove. It was hard to choose which kettlebell to use just now; I’m not accustomed to seeing so many pieces of equipment in someone’s home. And he has a beautiful squat rack, matte metal finish on the bar and weights polished to a shine. And a fancy rowing machine filled with water. So much money sloshing around. I would like to have a room like this in my new house. I think Joe would appreciate it.
In the end I went for a 24kg kettlebell as it was the only one placed slightly askew from the rest, and likely the one Noah genuinely would have used. So confident at his abilities that he got sloppy and let it slip from his overhead grasp. Plausible accidents, every time.
I position him in front of the mirror, mentally calculating where the kettlebell would have landed if it had slipped at the apex of a clean and jerk. I drop it there now, allowing it to dent the beautiful floor.
I consider going to get the cleaning things, making a start on that unfortunate trail from office door to spare room, but the risk of Marianne letting herself out is too great. She’d ruin everything if she ran now and raised the alarm. I can tell by the condition of this home that plenty of cleaning materials will be in a cupboard in the kitchen and I must have faith that this man, this conscientious man, will have products that are up to the job.
But for now, Marianne. I take out the little leather pouch filled with my tools. Her time is now.
Marianne
Noah has stopped answering. Marianne presses her ear to the door but hears nothing apart from a slight shuffling noise, like something being dragged.
A loud bang sounds from somewhere, maybe in the spare room, and she jumps back. What is he doing in there? Christ, what weapons does he have?
Marianne looks around desperately, but this office is bare. A desk, leather chair, computer and filing cabinet. There’s not even a phone or letter-opener, nothing she might use to defend herself. What is he doing?
Marianne looks out of the window; the light has faded to dull grey and a few cars are making their way down the cul-de-sac and nudging onto their drives. If she tried to raise the alarm, it’s unlikely they could see her from this angle. She looks at the latch on the dormer window. Maybe there is a way out.
The desk is pushed up to the window and she moves it, inches at a time, until she can slip behind it and reach the catch on the window.
Behind her, Noah is now scratching at the lock. They’re deliberate noises, like he knows what he’s doing. He’s not just jamming something in and trying to jimmy it open. The cool confidence terrifies her. Who is this man?
Marianne grabs the handle of the window and twists it, pushing the pane away from her. The window only opens six inches or so. There’s no way out. Instead, Marianne has pinned herself in place with the desk. She turns around to face the door as it opens.
It’s not Noah.
It’s the woman from the Bluebell.
Marianne turns to the window, ready to call out, ready to scream. But before she can find her voice, the woman is reaching over the desk and her gloved hands are on Marianne’s shoulders, turning her back to face the room.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Marianne,’ the woman says. Her voice is surprisingly gentle.
‘Where’s Noah?’ Marianne manages. ‘Are you working together?’
The woman ignores the question and instead reaches past Marianne to close the window. Her glove skims the side of Marianne’s neck. The woman’s expression is calm and professional.
‘Sit down,’ she says, pointing to the floor. Marianne’s legs buckle and she crashes down, resting her spine against the wall. A mad montage of archive footage rushes through her mind: all the executions, all the mass deaths she’s learnt about, taught about, over the years. Guns and bayonets pointing at pencil-thin necks, skulls with eyes bulging. Marianne closes her eyes and braces for the inevitable.
Nothing happens.
When she opens her eyes again, daring only a crack between her lashes, she sees the woman sitting across from her with her own back against the opposite wall.
Marianne tries to look out into the hall. The woman’s socked foot shoots across the floor and nudges the office door closed.
‘Don’t look out there,’ she says. ‘That’s not your problem.’
Sam
‘You’re free to go, but there are some conditions,’ I say. It’s hard to keep the exhaustion from my voice, drawing ragged breaths as I approach the finish line.
Marianne just stares back at me. For a moment I think she’s lost the ability to speak, but she finally opens her mouth.
‘You killed everyone on that list, didn’t you?’ Marianne says. There is a clarity to Marianne’s voice that surprises me. I should be irritated that she’s looking this reprieve in the mouth but I have a grudging respect for her burst of impudence. If she has a bit of grit it will serve her well for the next part.
‘How did you know about the others if you weren’t involved?’
Marianne stares back, no colour in her face. ‘Your website was hacked, the Assassin Supermarket. Every job on there is searchable.’
I hide my surprise.
‘Do you want to discuss websites or do you want to live?’ I say.
‘I want to live,’ Marianne says. ‘But—
’
‘Then listen carefully and do exactly as I say.’
I had thought Marianne was one of these bastards. Just another link in their chain. Until I saw her face in the kitchen. Then I knew. She’s as innocent as those other women. As innocent as Cristina. My mother. The many, many others.
‘Noah is dead,’ I say. ‘And if you don’t want to be in the frame for it, we’ll need to move fast.’
Marianne stares back at me. I watch as she starts to shake, just a tremble at first and then a violent vibration. Her jaw is clamped but tears well and roll down her face, soaking her T-shirt and baggy hoodie with thick black blotches.
‘I know he was into shady stuff,’ she splutters. ‘But he has a little girl—’
‘Shady stuff? Look, I heard his version earlier too, but believe me, Marianne, you don’t know the half of what this guy was into. Save your tears.’
‘And Greg? You killed him too? He really was a good guy!’
Marianne
‘A good guy.’ The woman takes in a deep breath and lets it percolate.
‘My husband, Steve, was a good guy,’ she says. ‘Well, he wasn’t actually my husband. I guess he was my partner.’ She laughs a little but Marianne doesn’t understand what the joke is. ‘And he wasn’t really a good guy, he just thought he was. He offered me a way out, a million years ago.’ The smile fades. ‘Except it wasn’t a way out, it was just a softer trap.’
‘What has this got to do with—’
‘Let me tell you what I’ve learnt about good guys over the years, Marianne.’
Marianne stares at her, mute. What the hell is this?
‘We know about bad guys, don’t we? Violent men, thugs. Bogeymen. And we know that there are some real monsters out there, don’t we? We’ve all glimpsed those monsters, right Marianne?’
Marianne looks away, refusing to give up her stories. Not to this woman.
‘Thought so. Creepy guys, handsy bosses. We all know them. Don’t we?’ The woman raises her dark eyebrows and waits for Marianne to nod. ‘Of course we do. Because these men wear flashing neon signs that read: beware.’
The woman closes her eyes and takes another long breath, letting it seep from flared nostrils. She looks older than she did at the Bluebell. Ageing by the minute, wrinkling like a deflated balloon.
‘But haven’t you realised by now, Marianne’ – she makes fists with her strong hands but lets them fall into her lap – ‘haven’t you realised the kind of drip-drip damage that breaks our dams again and again is the kind that comes from the nice men? The ones that, my God, somehow have broken down our defences so completely that we’re still making excuses for them, no matter what they do! You’re doing it now. “Noah’s a dad!” and “Greg just got in too deep. He was a good guy.”’
Marianne stares at the woman but then looks at the door. If she could just stand up while this woman’s eyes are screwed angrily shut, maybe she could get out and make a run for it. She starts to unfold her body, slowly climbs to her feet. The woman’s eyes pop open like those of a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘Sit down.’
Marianne sits back down.
‘These men, Marianne, have convinced you that up is down. And they manage to do just enough to keep you fooled. But they still benefit just the same as the bad guys, right? And yes, sure, these “good guys” shrug apologetically when we get cat-called or screw their faces up in disgust at the news stories, but don’t they like to remind you that it’s “not all men”?’
Marianne nods, just slightly, before she can stop herself. ‘But what has this got to do with Greg? Or Noah?’
‘The men who call themselves allies,’ the woman goes on, ‘who punch up, not down – in fact, never punch at all, because they’re not like that. Except the ones who do. Hiding in mild-mannered beige. The ones the papers describe as loving fathers, who just flip. I’ve met those. I’ve got rid of those, Marianne. You’re welcome, world.’
The woman runs a hand through her cropped grey hair. ‘You see it all so clearly when you stop being a woman they like to look at, you know? When they stop paying any attention to you at all.’
‘But—’
‘Marianne, none of them are good guys. They just sit at different points on a spectrum. For god’s sake, it doesn’t make them good guys because some men are worse. They’re not heroes just because they’re not rapists or thugs or’ – she gestures to the hall beyond the closed door – ‘a deadbeat dad. None of these men in this foul little network were good guys, Marianne, no matter what they told themselves,’ she spits. ‘And the sooner you let go of the very idea of good guys, the better chance you have of surviving.’
‘And what about Jenna?’ Marianne asks. ‘You killed her too, right?’
The woman shakes her head, a look of regret on her face. ‘I didn’t, no. And if I knew then what I know now, there are a lot of things I’d do differently. She didn’t deserve to die. They got someone else to do it, someone local, and they bungled it. But Marianne, you’re still focusing on the wrong people. You need to focus on yourself or you’ll never survive.’
Sam
I tried. I really tried. It took me over forty years to find out the hard way, the agonising way, not to put any faith in men. I should have opened my eyes years ago. I thought I was smart, a fighter, but then I jumped at Steve’s kindness, even though it tied a noose around me. I fell for Jonathan’s bullshit when his shadiness was barely hidden.
I will never rely on another man. Even Joe turned his back on me, but there’s still time to put that right and, hand on heart, I don’t blame him. A daughter would have done the same.
I guess every woman has to find out in her own time that you can only ever really rely on yourself. But if she’s not convinced by everything that’s happened to her so far, I don’t fancy Marianne’s chances. She looks back at me with those big wide eyes, looking like a ghost of Cristina and all the girls chopped up at the Bluebell. All of their lives would fail the fucking Bechdel test. Rotating around good guy after bad guy, as if they’re the answer to a question no one actually asked.
‘All right, fine,’ I say. Time is ticking.
‘These are the conditions, so listen very carefully. You go now, Marianne. You walk carefully along the edge of the hall and down the stairs. Leave through the front door and wave up at this floor of the house as you get into your car.’
‘What?’
‘Some neighbour will have seen you come in, I’m sure of it. So people need to see you leave again. And when you talk to the police later—’
‘The police?’
‘Listen to me and don’t get sidetracked. When you talk to the police, whenever it is that they come to speak to you, you tell them that you left while Noah was working out in the spare room. Keep everything else true. If you sent him any messages, don’t delete them from your phone but be prepared to explain them. Be honest about what time you arrived here and that you stayed over last night. Tell them nothing about the Bluebell and nothing about me. Got it?’
‘Yes. But—’
I stand up and she flinches. I offer my hand and she reluctantly lets me pull her up.
‘You need to leave now and you need to tell anyone who asks that Noah was still working out when you left.’
‘But—’
‘I will stay here and make sure the evidence tells the right story.’
‘But the neighbours will have seen you too and …’
I smile, I can’t help myself. ‘I’m not an amateur, Marianne. But you’re running out of time. So go now, stick to your story and never talk about any of this. Get home, order a takeaway from a usual place, tip the driver. Be seen. Go on and live your life.’
She stares up at me.
‘But Marianne, know this. If you decide to do anything stupid, it’s never too late for them to lay this all at your feet. Noah Simpson was not in charge of this, and the person who is, is still very much alive, pulling the strings. I will take care of that, then I’m going to enjoy my reti
rement. And you, of all people, aren’t getting in my way.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
I look at her with a hard expression but I keep my voice soft so she really hears it. ‘You should never trust anyone, Marianne.’
Marianne
The journey from Richmond to Hackney is a blur. God knows how many speed cameras she surges past, how many red lights she zips through. There’s a space just a few doors up from the flat and she reverses into it fast, straightens up so she doesn’t lose her wing mirror to a passing bus.
From the boot, she pulls out her holdall, with his and her laptops still inside. She fumbles for her keys, bags dangling on her aching arms, and is about to shove her way inside when a thought strikes her. She reloads the holdall into the boot, jumps back into the driver’s seat and heads off again.
Just like after Greg died, she heads out east. Gunning up the A12 and on towards the coast.
It’s dark by the time she hits Harwich. Its crumbling seafront is deserted, just a few empty cars under the dim lamplight. With the boot open, Marianne takes off Noah’s hoodie, shivering as she opens up the holdall and pulls out Greg’s laptop. As a light rain starts to fall, she wraps the laptop in the hoodie and carries her bundle onto the Ha’penny Pier.
The wooden floor is slippery under foot and she walks slowly, precisely. Below the pier, the brown seawater sloshes lazily around the old construction; in the distance abandoned cranes watch like iron giants. But she is alone here as she makes her way to the end of the pier.
The laptop comes free of its fabric wrapping almost as soon as it leaves her hands. For a moment it looks like the computer might float on the surface of the water, bobbing dangerously, ready for someone to scoop up. But within seconds both the hoodie and the laptop have disappeared, gobbled up by an indifferent sea. As if they never existed.
Sam