by Neil Randall
“Look, Nigel, I wanted to have a chat with you alone, ‘cause I’m not sure if us being us is a very good idea anymore.”
“What? Why? Because of everything that’s happened. Because of the murders and what the others said and—”
“It’s not just about the murders, the police and everything. And I know you’re not the kind of person those stuck-up muppets upstairs are trying to make out you are. Only I don’t know if there’s much of a future for us, you know. I just wanna simple, hassle-free relationship. I just wanna be normal. I’ve been through too much in the past. I ain’t got the strength to go through it again. I think, maybe, when it comes down to it, we’re both too damaged to make a serious go of things.”
“But I thought we were good together, that we brought the best out in each other.”
“So did I. But relationships are hard enough without all this baggage. I wanna do my voluntary work at The Samaritans, to help as many people as I can, hopefully become a proper qualified social worker or counsellor or something one day. But when I get home of a night, I just wanna cuddle up on the sofa in front of Eastenders, drink a can of cider, order a kebab, and I don’t think that would ever be enough for you.”
Inevitably, I tried to talk Liz round, telling her not to make any hasty decisions, that I understood exactly how she felt, that maybe it would be best if we took a break from each other, just until the police apprehended the murderer, then, perhaps, we could start again.
“Let’s just leave it, hey?” She got to her feet, leaned over and planted a soft kiss to my cheek. “Let’s just concentrate on getting out of here in one piece.” She straightened and walked towards the door, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”
After she’d left me alone, there was an ominous, crystallised stillness to the room, the house, the world and everything in it. I don’t know what it was – sadness, regret, an anti-climax – as if I’d been a valiant hero on a mystical quest to win Liz’s hand, and now I didn’t have that to strive for, all my efforts had been in vain, that it didn’t matter if we ever found out the truth now, if Bannister was right or wrong about the police, whether the killer struck again, if we were all murdered in our sleep, our bodies buried in the surrounding woodland, because, after all this was over, I’d go straight back to my own boring, sad, lonely life, to complete and utter isolation.
I was awoken by a loud, ghostly hooting noise, right outside the study door. I sat up on the settee, blinked my eyes, rubbed my face, and then pinched my forearm really hard, twisting the skin around and around, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But I wasn’t. Another hoot-hoot was followed by the sound of hurried footsteps bounding up the stairs.
I rushed out of the study, dashing down the hallway.
What happened next happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to react, to shout out and warn the others. For no sooner had I reached the foot of the stairs, than two hulking men wearing (and even now, I have grave doubts about what I actually saw) feathered headdresses, just like the Native Americans from the horned owl fable, came running down the last few steps. When they saw me they lashed out, kicking and beating me time and again, knocking me to the stone floor, stamping all over my prostrate body.
After that, all I was aware of were fragmented images, sounds, smells – most of all, flickering orange flames and thick billowing smoke. So thick, I started to cough, choke, until I regained something close to full consciousness. From upstairs came screaming, the crackling sound of fire licking wood, padding feet on floorboards. Blindly I groped for the wall, wiping blood from my face and wafting smoke from my eyes. Hauling myself up to my feet, I made it halfway up the stairs, meeting Bannister through a thick curtain of smoke, carrying a woman in his arms.
“Mr Barrowman!” He handed me Jane, unconscious, unmoving. “Quickly, take her outside. I’ll go up for another one. If we act fast, we’ll get everybody out.”
Somehow I managed to take hold of her without toppling backwards down the stairs, descend the remaining steps, pull open the front door, run outside, and place her on the shingled drive. But it was too late. Jane wasn’t breathing; she was dead.
I looked up.
There was no police car parked outside, no officers sitting in the front seat.
I raced back into the house, the smoke so thick now, the flames throwing off such intense heat, it almost forced me straight back out of the door. Pulling my jumper up over my nose, I inched over towards the foot of the stairs, almost colliding with Bannister as he bounded down the last few steps, another body in his arms.
“Here.” He handed me the unconscious woman – it was Liz. “Mr Barrowman,” he shouted right into my ear, “the fire’s getting out of control, but I’ll give it one last go; I’ll take a chance, smash some windows. See if we can’t jump out to safety.”
Determined to get Liz out of the house, I turned and ran back through the front door, crouching and laying her down on the drive next to Jane.
“Liz, Liz,” I cried, lightly slapping her face, checking for a pulse in her neck. “Please be all right. Please be all right. Liz! Liz!”
Suddenly she opened her eyes, and coughed so violently, I was sure she was going to be sick.
“Don’t – Don’t worry ‘bout me,” she murmured. “Go help the others.”
As I turned to run back into the house, someone struck me across the back of the head, once again knocking me senseless. The last thing I heard was more screaming; the last thing I saw was a horrible smear of flickering orange flame across my fading peripheral vision. Then everything went black…
Chapter Thirty-Four
The first person I saw when I woke up in a private hospital room was Gideon Forbes-Powers.
“Relax, relax,” he said, on hearing me stir. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.” He got to his feet, smiled concernedly, and softly patted my shoulder. As he straightened, I noticed the empty sleeve where his left arm had previously been. “Don’t overexert yourself.”
“Liz, Liz,” I tried to say, but my throat was so sore, so tender, the words were probably no more than a croaking jumble of insensible nonsense.
Regardless, Gideon must’ve understood what I meant. His eyes watery and troubled, he shook his head.
“I’m so sorry, Nigel, but you were the only survivor. Everyone else perished in the blaze, most from smoke inhalation. It was a terrible accident.”
The word accident jarred with me to the point where I wanted to leap from the bed, to shout out, to tell him it was anything but an accident, that all those people – Liz, Bannister, everyone – had been murdered. But I felt far too weak to move, break down and cry, too confused to assemble any kind of considered emotional response.
As I struggled to hold myself together, the door swung open and in walked a sprightly, white-coated Indian doctor.
“Ah, Mr Barrowman, you’ve finally woken up, then.” He picked up a chart from the foot of the bed. “You’re lucky to be alive. If you hadn’t tripped and fallen outside and banged your head like that, you would’ve no doubt suffered the same fate as the others, including the valorous former soldier, the man to be awarded a posthumous bravery award for his actions, even though they were sadly in vain.”
At this point, I decided to play dumb, to feign amnesia, to make out I had no recollection of what took place at the farmhouse. Even then, in the first few minutes of proper consciousness, I was fully aware of the inevitable, potentially dangerous police questioning that awaited me. If I claimed not to remember anything, it might buy me some breathing space, it might even help to save my life.
“What happened?” I asked, touching the thick bandage bounding my head.
Taking it in turns, the doctor (a Doctor Rashid) and Gideon helped fill the phantom gaps in my memory.
“Apparently,’ said Gideon, “one of the women in the house was a heavy smoker. By all accounts, she lit up in the communal bedroom in the early hours of the morning, and must’ve nodded straig
ht back off to sleep again, dropping the cigarette and starting the blaze. Bloody ridiculous – and so, so avoidable. By the time you and that Bannister chap awoke, it was already too late; the room was engulfed in smoke.”
“But what about the policemen guarding the house? Surely they would’ve been alerted by the blaze. Surely they should’ve helped tackle the flames.”
“Tragically,” said Rashid, “the two young officers on duty that night had dropped off to sleep, too. Only when you dashed out of the house with the first body did they awaken and offer any assistance.” He clicked his tongue. “With the bedroom being at the back of the property, they simply weren’t aware of the fire, they simply didn’t see the flames.”
Later that day, I received the expected police visit. Two senior, plain-clothed officials (and I call them officials because they told me they were from the Internal Affairs Division), a Dowd and Montgomery, entered the room.
“We’re so glad that you’re feeling better now, Mr Barrowman,” said Dowd. “But, as I’m sure you appreciate, in the aftermath of the incident, we’re still trying to piece together exactly what happened. Anything you can tell us about the night in question would, therefore, be greatly appreciated.”
I told him I didn’t remember anything with any clarity, that it was all a blur, that all that remained in my memory were fragments, like speaking to Liz after I carried her outside. Here, I perhaps betrayed myself slightly, so keen was I to learn exactly what had happened to her, because when I last saw her, she was conscious, lucid, very much alive.
“As she was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital,” said Montgomery, the bulkier and more forthcoming of the two men. “Unfortunately, smoke inhalation can creep up on you, can be a silent killer. This proved to be the case with Miss Green and Mr Bannister. By the time she’d been transferred to a hospital bed, she experienced serious breathing difficulties, and despite the doctors and nurses best efforts they couldn’t revive her.”
I slowly nodded, a vivid image of the men who started the fire, the men in feathered headdresses flashing before my eyes.
“There will, of course, be a full inquiry,” said Dowd. “Lessons will have to be learned, especially from a logistical point of view, keeping a number of witnesses, those at risk under one roof, instead of at separate locations.”
It was then, as he repeated Bannister’s words from the night before the fire, almost verbatim, that I wondered if there had been some sort of wire tap in the farmhouse, that the police had been listening in to us at all times, and that’s why they chose to strike right away, that’s why they set fire to the house.
“And, erm…what about the murder investigation?” I asked, hoping to both divert my own thoughts and further wrong-foot the officers. “Have there been any arrests? Has Michelle Rouse or her parents been found yet?”
Both men shifted a little uncomfortably.
“You don’t know?” said Dowd. “Of course you don’t, how could you, being holed up here in the hospital? Yesterday, the bodies of Mr and Mrs Rouse were found in a car, clear suicide, exhaust pipe fumes funnelled into the vehicle via rubber tubing. There was no note, either at the scene or at the deceased couples’ home. We can only assume, therefore, that their daughter’s lurid allegations had sent them over the edge.”
“So you found the diaries, then?”
“No, no,” said Montgomery. “We’re basing our assumptions on the testimony of both yourself and Mr Bannister, and, of course, the missing woman’s medical records.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
In the week that followed, while I was still officially recuperating, Gideon visited me twice a day, often staying well beyond official visiting hours. He was so polite and attentive, offering to get me anything I needed, that I had difficulty working out how I felt about him and everything that happened in the basement. Very much in fear of my life, not to mention traumatised by the fire, it didn’t feel like I had any friends to turn to, anyone I could trust. Gideon, therefore, became a central figure in my life, a connection with the outside world, a confidant, someone I could rely on.
At my request, he gathered all the newspaper reports of the fire: Tragedy at Police Safe House, Heroic Ex-Serviceman Dies in Attempt to Save Others, Police to Reassess Procedures Following Fire Deaths were the general tone of the headlines, although the accompanying articles were almost completely bereft of specific details regarding how the blaze had started, why the police had chosen to house key witnesses in a multiple murder investigation under one roof, and why there wasn’t a sufficient police presence guarding the property.
Despite all this, I still had doubts about Gideon, his motivations, not to mention many questions that I wanted to ask about his family, any knowledge he might have of his father’s part in securing me employment at the council.
“Gideon,” I said towards the end of the week, “can I ask you something? What are you doing here? Why are you being so kind, acting like my next of kin?”
“Well, I, erm…hold myself somewhat responsible for your predicament, old chap. What, with Mater locking you away like that. Unforgivable. I just want to try and make amends.” He bit into his bottom lip. “And – And I didn’t want to mention this straight away. I didn’t want to upset you. But Mater passed away the day after you absconded from the basement. So I’ve been at a bit of a loose end, a bit lost, after coming out of the hospital myself, not really knowing which way to turn. In many respects, visiting you has helped take my mind off things, the will, funeral arrangements and suchlike.”
It felt polite to offer my condolences, but I could only muster a slight nod of the head, a flicker of forced sympathy breaking out across my face.
“Secondly, and this really is the most incredible and unexpected bit of news, but I’ve been offered a publishing contract for The Magister’s Analects, a quite amazingly lucrative one at that.” He glanced across at me, as if to gauge my reaction. “Only proviso is that I make a few changes to the manuscript following what the publisher called an ‘extensive creative edit’. And as you’re the only other person in the world who’s read a little of the book, I’d like to make you an offer. How about coming on-board, and working with me as an assistant editor?”
“An assistant editor?”
“I know it’s a big decision, Nigel, a big commitment. So why don’t I let you sleep on it. Tomorrow, I can bring in a copy of the contract for you to look at, maybe even some of the editor’s notes on the manuscript, areas that could be tightened and revised, as it were. Only remember, the financial rewards, if the book was to become a success, would be huge.”
Next day I declined the offer, having never been particularly enamoured of the subject-matter or tone of the writing.
“So you’re saying no, then?” he asked, pacing up and down the room. “You don’t want to get involved?”
I tried to explain my decision as soberly as possible, citing my current state of mind (I had been suffering from genuinely terrible nightmares about the fire), my fears for my own future, my job at the council, my flat, neither of which appeared straightforward.
“But you owe me,” he cried, waving his empty sleeve around. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be a bloody cripple. I’d have two perfectly good functioning arms.”
In a petulant display, he went through the entire gamut of negative emotions – anger, disbelief, spite, outrage.
“Well, I didn’t want to tell you this, Nigel, but you’ve been evicted from your flat, and your contract of employment has been terminated with immediate effect. Unless you come back to the house and work with me, you really don’t have anywhere else to go.”
I wasn’t sure if this was correct, if I could trust him, but it didn’t concern me unduly. I’d had so much contact with social services over the years, I knew there was no way I would be without some kind of roof over my head, be it a halfway house or a room in private lodgings, however grotty or unappealing.
And this I told him.
“I w
ouldn’t be so sure,” he said, with an ominous edge to his voice. “But I really do need your help. Therefore, I’m prepared to put all my cards on the table.”
“All your cards on the table?” I repeated, familiar with the expression, but unsure how it applied to this particular situation. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, that if you help edit the book, I will tell you the truth about your counselling sessions with Doctor Rabie, the whole story, everything you’ve been struggling to remember all these years.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“I know you’ve only just come out of the hospital,” said Watson from across the interview room table, like a memory of a past event that had only ever taken place in my head, “but some very serious allegations have been made against you. So let’s go over things one more time. On the morning in question, you escaped from Mrs Forbes-Powers’ house and ran down the street. A car pulled over to the side of the road. Inside was Mr Bannister, the so-called private detective, who just so happened to be passing. He drove you to see Mr and Mrs Rouse, who showed you diaries written by their missing daughter, accusing them of sexual abuse. All three of whom, the parents and Bannister, are now deceased.”
“Granted,” I said, struggling to maintain my composure. “But Bannister is the same man who recently received a posthumous bravery award, a man who sacrificed his life in an attempt to save many others, a man who made a signed statement attesting to the validity of a great deal of my story. Surely that still holds some weight with you?”
Watson made a vague, pouty, non-committal face.
“Of course it does. But that doesn’t discount the fact that you’ve been identified as the man who ran down an elderly woman, leaving her for dead.”
“But that woman has a history of throwing herself in front of vehicles. Check her background, if you don’t believe me. Call the bus service or – or the local supermarkets, for that matter. She goes around trying to feign injury in the hope of getting compensation.”